


A Stroke of Luck

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Bottom!Lock, Character Development, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Professional Swimming AU, Secret Relationship, Smut, Top!lock, holmes parents - Freeform, mystrade cameo, rich vs poor, sports AU, switch!lock, trigger warning: homophobia, trigger warning: mentions of suicide, trigger warning: parental abuse, trigger warning: self hate, young johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, son of professional swimming legacies Charles and Victoria Holmes, lives a vicarious life. Drowning in a world of homophobia and disrespect, Sherlock must battle his own demons and swim to the depths of Hell and back. Luckily, he meets the golden love that is John Watson, and together they fight any current that comes their way on the river to inundating success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LennyFace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LennyFace/gifts), [gatoradebitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatoradebitch/gifts).



> The realm and terms of professional swimming have been researched in writing this fic, so hopefully it's all well and factual.  
> Also, I know that the lucky bastards in England don't have to pay for university, but for the sake of John's motif, let's say they do.
> 
> *For Mara and Désirée*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was at his parent's whim and was going nowhere but into the pool at this point.

Sliding into his spot at the kitchen table, the young man huffed a breath that mussed his wild bangs. He relaxed into the chair and picked up the toast his mother lay out for him with a dismissive hand. She moved around the table and spoke to him, "Sherlock."

He met her eyes and gave a slight nod.

"I'm so proud of you for placing first in the last match. The medley relay was fantastic, due to your spot-on freestyle."

"Thanks, mum." Sherlock took another bite of toast to keep himself from saying anything else. 

The woman's maroon sweater crinkled as she joined her son in the adjacent chair. She smiled at him warmly, the model of a proud mother, but her worn eyes sharpened and she suddenly spoke firmly. "And I know you're trying your hardest, and that's wonderful, but I don't want you thinking that this past win means you can slack off before regionals."

He bent forward and dropped his half-eaten breakfast onto the fine China. Rolling his neck, he feigned a smile. "You know I won't, mum."

"I know, I know, I'm just making sure. Your father and I have high hopes for you, but we wouldn't want all this hard work to go to waste when it comes down to it."

"It won't." _It won't,_ Sherlock repeated to himself.

"Right, well, finish your breakfast and take an apple with you before you leave. Have a good day, son." She moved to kiss his forehead before disappearing out of the kitchen and retreating upstairs, her worried sigh lingering.

Sherlock stood from the table and threw his toast away. _I'll try._

He leaned on the counter and folded his arms.

In the technical sense, Sherlock had nothing to worry about. He was the best swimmer on the team. His form was unparalleled and his speed was something to be rivaled. Plus, he was a magnificent leader and the coach's favorite. 

However, in the realistic sense, the shred of doubt that his mother's piercing gaze drove into him dug deeper with the looming threat to uphold his family's legacy. 

The facts were these: Sherlock's parents had been training him to carry on their professional swimming heritage from his earliest memory. They were both champions, having met and courted poolside. They swam together and trained, even when his mother was pregnant with her first child - Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft. They took him everywhere they went, to every match, but when the country's highest ranking competition finally graced them, and the opportunity for success was finally in their grasp, Sherlock was conceived and his mother was disqualified because she was too far into the pregnancy. Retiring to take care of a second child, his father lost a part of himself the day he had to sign off forever. An eight year old was one thing, but another son only made travel and competing more difficult, and at this point - his mother was already worn down and wanted to raise her family properly. 

Regretting his missed chances, his father swore that he'd train him to continue in his footsteps and take the Holmes name to even more victories. He would have thrust this "honor" upon Mycroft, but Sherlock's older brother was born with a weak heart, and strenuous exercise was then out of the question. Sherlock was born healthy and grew up tall and slim - a paragon of swimming excellence. 

Of course, Mycroft never seemed as much as a burden to their parents as Sherlock did, seeing as his existence never threw their greatest chance away. Sherlock now had the weight of making up for his brother's incompetence, his parent's retirement, and the professional swimming legacy on his shoulders. _Lucky, lucky Sherlock Holmes..._

Sherlock swam in pools every day because of this - after college, during a free period, on holiday… Never resting. It became a sort of numb routine, and his body was so accustomed to the feeling of the water around it that he was rather desensitized, except for when he felt sharp, burning pain in his over-stressed muscles.

It didn't distract him from school at all, though, and he easily placed at the top in all of his classes, his A-Levels, and on all of his teams. Mycroft, on the other hand, pursued a government career and was living quite happily in London, surrounded by cake.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were determined to have Sherlock succeed and resume their championship, even reaching so far as to assume that he'd take himself all the way to the Olympics. However, their praise, hidden with disappointment and still-not-good-enough's, weighed heavily on the nineteen-year-old, and he'd developed a hard-working facade around his parents and a superiority complex when with his team.

Yet underneath his cocky talent and stressful expectations, Sherlock Holmes was just trying to figure his life out. He'd finished college a year ago, and although his parents spoke of prestigious universities with fantastic swimming teams, they'd decided he'd take a year or more off to practice with the infamous coach of the community team. It seemed to rack up a sort of reputation, and God only knew the Holmeses were all about that. They wanted him to go all the way, and Sherlock's parents were in between having him work for it closer to home or working for it at university, even if their own sterling reputation, mixed with Sherlock's exam results, could open up worlds for him. Either way, Sherlock was at his parent's whim and was going nowhere but into the pool at this point. 

He thought to himself, stringing out complaints like beads on a thread. _Everyone on the team besides Mr. Pensy hates me, including me. I have no life outside of swim. I go to swim, I go to work, I go home, repeat and rinse. I hate it. I hate swimming. At least, you made me hate it. My skin is permanently bleached by chlorine by now, I swear it._  

In fact, Sherlock had been so inundated in constantly training for the next competition this past year, that he had no time to seek out relationships. Albeit, none of his previous attempts had been extremely successful, due to his crippling insecurity and false confidence. He had racked up a few experiences, though, and he mentally added them to his list of sexual encounters every time one of them appeared. Unfortunately for him, It'd been months since the last, so wanking in the shower would have to suffice until the next.

Sherlock snapped himself out of his self reflection and turned to the literal reflection in the window above the sink. He turned his face side to side, checking to make sure his cheekbones were still prominent and his unruly teal eyes shot daggers. He craned his neck up and noted how the light caught the dip in his plump lips, as well as how the muscles in his neck strained. 

Actually, most of his muscles tensed on a daily basis. He was always sore in one place or another, but it had turned into a dull ache and he disregarded it whenever it arose. He turned away from the reflection now and ran his slender fingers through his dark curls. Glancing at the clock, Sherlock crossed the small kitchen and retrieved his satchel off the back of the chair. He dug through it to retrieve his blue goggles (he liked to wear them around his neck), but he was interrupted by a gallop of footsteps down the stairs.

He grimaced, knitting his brows together in a desperate attempt to brace himself for the chill.

"Son," his father said.

 _Please, God. Not today._ "Hey, dad." Sherlock cursed his luck. He hid his sneer and pulled his face away from his father's presence in the kitchen. If his mother was bad with her back-handed compliments and restrictions, then his father was much worse. He was explicit about his disagreements and seemed to regret Sherlock's existence every day. He worked as a contractor now, his lean swimmer's body rounding up with age and leaving him virtually worthless in the realm of water sports.

He stood himself in front of Sherlock, morning robe exposing a dark patch of chest hair, his face contorted into his usual stern expression. "Your mother tell you that we're proud of you?"

"Yes, dad."

"Right. Well, we are." Sounding insincere, he made himself coffee mindlessly, turning away from Sherlock and leaving him to stand idly. 

Tense minutes passed, and Sherlock wondered if he was allowed to leave. His father answered that for him, though, as he let the water heat and appeared beside Sherlock, uncomfortably close. "Sherlock," he started. "Don't think that this means you're off easy. I want to see you pushing yourself and beating your semi-final records in the next four weeks."

The swimmer wanted to move out of the line of fire, but he was paralyzed. "Yes, dad. I will. I promise."

"Now that you're out of school, this should be your priority. The season's coming to a close, and I need you to finish strong. That means no late nights, no parties, and no dating. The only time you should be away from the pool is during your part-time job, and even then you should be aware."

Sherlock was sure there was little red half-moon rivets in the flesh of his palm by now, dug by his nails. He would never, _never,_ find the strength to speak to his dad as an equal. He loathed himself more than usual when his father gave him that "You-fucked-up-my-life" look.

"I know, dad, I know."

His breath was hot on Sherlock's neck, but it froze him to the core "Don't sass me, son."

"I'm sorry. I just don't want to be late." _Liar. If you were twenty-seven minutes late, you'd still probably be able to have the coach lick the dirt from your toes. … Ugh. Mental image._

Finally pulling back and returning to his coffee, his dad smiled at him. "Right! Don't want you pissing off Mr. Pensy. Run along now, and I guess we'll see you after work tonight?" 

Shaking off the eerie feeling of his father's transition from threatening to saccharine, Sherlock shifted his satchel on his shoulder and nodded, eager to leave the house. He ignored what his father called after him as he hustled down the steps, through the garden, and fetched his bike from the gate.

He hastily mounted it and kicked away from the street, gliding down it in the peaceful, still morning. Replaying his parents' words in his head as he pedaled, Sherlock bumped over potholes and rounded corners. His suburban section of the city was strangely silent most days, and the community pool where they practiced was only a number of blocks away. It felt like a whole different world though, and Sherlock took the time getting there to mentally prepare himself in slapping on his cheeky confidence.

* * *

Meanwhile, John Watson was cranking up his music and dancing 'round the kitchen, scone in hand. He bobbed along to the heavy bass and shimmied his rear as he applied jam to his breakfast. Unable to hear his sister enter the kitchen, John continued to express his happiness as he returned the jam to the fridge and shut it with a sassy hip.

Turning, he caught sight of his sister's curious expression. John reached quickly to pause the music, "Harry!"

"I hope oddness doesn't run in the family," she said as she raked her fingers through her messy, cropped hair and joined him in the kitchen.

"Why are you up so early, you've nowhere to be," John replied. _And I actually do, for once,_ he thought.

Harriet popped a brow and sighed, "Someone woke me up with trashy 2000's boy bands."

"Relient K isn't trashy." John leaned against the counter and bit into his scone, a lingering smile still on his lips. His sister pushed past him to the fridge. A few crumbs fluttered from his lips as he scoffed, "Nice pajamas." 

She was wearing an oversized sweater and baggy sweatpants, but the various stains on them were what John was criticizing. Harriet never really was one for flouncy silken shorts, anyway. "They're American," she said, ignoring his sarcasm, "So yes, trashy."

John rolled his eyes. "Pfft, opinions. Anyway, did you notice my new duds?"

Harriet closed the fridge after retrieving milk, her incredulous brown eyes giving her brother a once-over. She moved to the cupboard. "Why would I?"

"Because I'm wearing swimming trunks. I have my first official practice with the Eastern Eels today." John ate half his scone in one bite.

Now situated with a bowl of cereal, Harriet sat herself at the kitchen table and gave John a bored look. She stuffed a spoonful into her mouth and waved it around as she spoke. "Oh yeah, isn't that that dumb swim club or whatever?" She ignored John's muffled gasp. "What do you guys do again? Compete against other waterlogged losers like three times a season? Lame."

John took a moment to contemplate the ridiculousness of it. The teams competed in both relays and races. John and his soon-to-be teammates would each compete a length of the pool in a separate leg with a specific stroke, and touch the cement to start off the player after him. They also tested speed in the meter dashes, which weren't John's strong suit. He stuffed the other half of scone into his mouth and chewed slowly so he didn't have to respond.

"Fine, don't answer me. I know you guys are all stressed out by the end of the season. A few of my mates from college fancy some of the blokes on that team. I thought they were all gay, to be honest."

John retrieved his backpack and situated it on his shoulders before smoothing down his eyebrows and fluffing his thin, blond hair. He tried to ignore the connotations of his sister's words, although she knew full well that any place with fit young men in tight trunks would be cause for question. "They're not actually gay. That's just a rumor. Besides, we're not allowed to date teammates."

She ate another spoonful. "Alright, just don't get skin cancer."

John straightened his sweatshirt and his trunks, eventually working his hands back up to feel his face. He needed to shave, but he was already cutting it close with time. He prodded at his eyes and nose before shaking the thought away. Nobody on the team would be worth looking attractive for, he knew it. Or at least nobody that could get him into trouble. 

Kissing her on the cheek as he left the kitchen, John moved through the living room and called back over his shoulder. "And you should get some sleep, Clara's not going to want to see you like that. Cheers!" He shut the door behind him, excitedly nervous.

Once out of the house, John breathed in the morning air and smiled to himself. He'd wanted to join the community team since he heard about it last year, but he'd missed the deadline to sign up the first time. Their advertisements for willing swimmers and thorough practices intrigued him, and the rumors of the professionalism of it, even just as a community team, seemed worth a look. 

This year, all positions were filled, and John's dreams were once again stymied. Luckily for him, the team's breaststroker twisted his wrist with just a month left until their regional finals. 

The coach, who was rumored to be unpleasant and difficult to persuade, had searched the reserves and stumbled upon John, who had no legitimate experience but seemed like the only option. He didn't mind that, he was just happy that he had a chance. 

John thought about how strange an occurrence it was that he ended up with that chance. He didn't have any _professional_ swimming experience, and the only talent worth considering besides his familiarity with water was his simple CPR training and other medical knowledge. In fact, he didn't even know if he'd be a worthy member of the team. He might just be there to fill a spot. But John Watson was brave and willing to learn, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. 

He looked back at his life as he made his way down the sidewalk, shifting his backpack on his shoulders. 

After college and passing his A-Levels, John had spent three years working for his father up in the country. He'd helped maintain the farm as he continued to read up on the process of becoming a doctor. It was his most hopeful dream, but it seemed farther and farther away as the years swept under him. He lived with his sister now, in a mediocre house closer to civilization. His neighborhood had provided some interesting experiences, and he was grateful for the little romance and memories he'd found at school and in his adjacent neighborhoods. _If you could call it romance,_ he added.

However, his other experiences and higher goals had always been just out of reach; his family's resources were less than plentiful and they couldn't send him off to a proper university with their savings. But John didn't mind that, either. He wanted time to brace himself, even find himself, before exploring medicine. Swimming was just a hobby.

In fact, it was just pleasure. He visited a chlorine pool a few times growing up on trips into the city, but he mostly swam in the manmade pond up on the farm. It was his sanctuary, full of crisp, cold water and fresh reeds. He loved it. He reveled in the way the water flowed over his skin and how the bubbles tickled his stomach when he tried tumble turns. He spent most of his time in there during summer, creating make-believe situations where he was a diver or a merman. His childhood friends liked the pond, too, and soon it was dubbed "John's Pond." 

He smiled fondly at the memory as he passed one of his neighbors emerging from his house to fetch the morning paper. He waved. 

The interest for professional swimming came purely from his school friends, and John thought that now was a better time than any to try and see where that path would take him. He had all the time in the world, it seemed.

Fortunately, the fee to swim was handled by his savings from working, and the Eels didn't make him pay when he'd learned there were no spots left. Actually, the price wasn't excruciatingly high for its professionalism. The trunks needed to be bought so they matched, as did goggles and caps, but the other than that, he just had to bring himself, his strength, and his time.

When he did receive the coach's acceptance-under-the-circumstances email, though, he immediately sent them the required amount, even though he'd only use it for the last month or so of the season. Of course, it was known that sports teams usually had returning players each season, and John hoped the case was the same with swim. He wondered if he'd be able to be a part of it for longer, since his medical dreams weren't taking off any time soon.

John was approaching the bus stop now, but his stroll turned into a jog when his he noticed that his wristwatch displayed ten to eight. 

Catching the bus right as its doors nearly closed, John breathed a sigh of relief and stepped up into it. He handed the driver his pass, the woman giving him a curious eye. She shook her head.

He pushed through the aisle and plopped himself down into a blue seat, smiling to himself. It was really happening. 

Ignoring the groggy morning bus people around him, John took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself.

He had a chance to make something right, to go on an adventure. Even if it all went to shit and his teammates were snobby pricks, at least he'd have gotten the opportunity to get out of the house and into the water.

Resting his head on the window, he looked out at his his neighborhood and the various houses that were scattered across the street like a patchwork quilt. It was a quaint and rather humble part of town, certainly a change from the Watson family farm.

John crossed his arms and wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't risk missing his stop, so he just pleasantly noted his city rolling by, its citizens barely rousing from their slumber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John likes American bands, that's how it goes.  
> P.S. HARRY WATSON APPRECIATION


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something needed to happen to him.

"Right," Mr. Pensy said as he crossed in front of the team. "You all performed very well in the last competition, but now is the time to put your nose to the grindstone and toes to the starting blocks." 

His Irish accent bubbled over his tongue and trickled down his regal posture, his strict hands tight behind his back as he turned to face the young men. Sherlock and his teammates sat cross-legged on the cement, the still water of the pool glistening in the early morning sun. Their coach spoke firmly, but the team knew he was proud of them, and they nudged each other and whispered congratulations when he turned his back. Sherlock, of course, did not. Nobody on the team was particularly fond of him, no matter how fantastic a swimmer he was.

"I know that these next few weeks will seem like a time to slack off, to celebrate, but I assure you, they won't be. You need to push yourselves harder, breath deeper, strain to reach other side of the pool a little longer because _now_ is the time to prove to the committee that one of you is good enough to take it all the way.

"As you know, if one of you should make it there, his success is as much his own as it all of ours, and I have no doubts that the fame that comes from England's finest swimmer will no doubt benefit our, albeit, measly team." He clapped his hands, "Alright. I think we deserve some individual praise.

"Christopher Scott, your butterfly has improved tremendously since you joined us. Your dolphin kick is sharper. Well done. If you can just shed 3.4 seconds off it in time for regionals."

"Yessir," the redhead a few members away from Sherlock said.

"Arthur Alexander, your backstroke has impeccable glide. Be sure to keep your shoulder joints limber as you work it to perfection."

Another boy nodded.

"Sherlock Holmes," the coach directed his attention now at his favorite swimmer, "Once again, your solid freestyle saved us all in the medley. Good work, boy."

 _Once again…_ The young man caught a few whispers directed at him at that, but he just smirked proudly and ran slender fingers through his dark curls. Sherlock noted that they were wild and free, and he reached to his satchel to fetch his cap. Mr. Pensy continued as he snapped the blue swimming cap over his head.

With a flash of disappointment in his displeasing eyes, the coach turned his face to the sun. "As for breaststroke, I'm sorry that Jeremy is unable to compete. Fortunately, I was able to pull a last recruit to replace him. We can only hope he proves himself useful in these next weeks. And," he cleared his throat, "the rest of you, I hope you know that I'm just as proud of you as I am of my, now _three,_ top swimmers - but I expect you to take note from them as you continue to practice your styles and turns. And don't neglect the meter races, either. Fancy swimming does not make up for lost time."

The team shifted uncomfortably. Favoritism was strong with the coach, and although Sherlock wouldn't know what it was like to watch from the outside, he could only imagine the sting from being disregarded, or worse, forgotten.

He was antsy now; he wanted to get in the water. He wanted to soak his sore bones and push through his tense muscles. However, news of the replacement swimmer piqued his fancy and he held on through the coach's spiel in case there was more information. Everyone on the team now was rather worthless and rude, and the possibility of a new member was exciting.

"Now, before you get in the water, I want to reinforce my policy."

Sherlock heard his teammates groan just small enough to go unheard. His own heart fluttered, knowing what harsh words lay before him.

Mr. Pensy's stern face became sharper and he stared each and every boy down with powerful intensity as he spoke. "There will be a new boy here. He is a teammate. He is a swimmer. He is a replacement. He is our new hope. There is to be no… soiling… of his character. I will not permit that sort of atrocity on my team. You know that I am firm about this rule, and I won't have any of you slipping up just because this new member might cause your inner twink to arise. I will not stand it. I will not hesitate to ban you from the team if I hear of any of that. No flirting, no touching - none of that fag shit. You are all strapping young men between the age of eighteen and twenty one, and while relationships seem to distract us from our goals, I would hope you all have nice girls in the bleachers when you swim. I will not have you turn our new member into a stereotype, especially since I've worked so hard to keep those irrational and unnatural ideas away from this team in particular. Fortunately, none of you have broken my rule, so our reputation is clean, but I am warning you once again. If any of you try _anything_ with the new swimmer, or with each other, I will kick your scrawny arse out of my pool in two seconds flat. … I also hope to see all of your girlfriends and parents at regionals."

Everyone was silent. Sherlock had heard this speech so many times, and it still hurt every time he heard it. 

The other team members had varied reactions. Some of them took the side of the coach, throwing homophobic slurs around in front of him to gain his favor, while others just shrugged and hoped none of the teammates were dating each other. Sherlock knew perfectly well that two or more of his teammates _had_ fooled around, both with boys outside of the team and within, and although they were lucky not to be told on, Sherlock never risked it.

Not that he had anyone to risk anything with. The boys on the team disliked him, and even if one didn't, none of them were his type. 

Actually, Sherlock didn't know what his type was. He'd had crushes in the past, mostly on fit boys in school with a sort of biting wit, but nothing yet had proved worthy of what Mr. Pensy would be enraged about. His sexual and romantic history, although paltry, satiated him enough to pine for one now. His last boyfriend was too rude to remember, and looking back, Sherlock realized he hadn't been what he was looking for, either. It'd been so long since he was touched, gazed at fondly. He never told anyone of his intentions, of course, but the knowledge that there may be an opportunity to "soil" the new boy was causing him to wonder. _Down, boy,_ he joked.

Of course, Mr. Pensy didn't know of Sherlock's longing for a relationship, and he often teased him about his intelligence at staying single while in season. 

The coach cleared his throat expectantly one last time before saying, "Now, I want ten laps from each of you. The first group is up. I will be timing you to see how quickly you've bounced back."

There was a rustle of movement as the young men scrambled to situate themselves. Sherlock was in the first group, and he moved lithely to his starting block on the far left of the pool and waited for the whistle.

He thought to himself as the other boys fumbled. 

Something needed to happen to him. Something needed to come to him, surprise him, change him, scare him, hurt him - something, _anything,_ needed to affect him. He was mindlessly swimming through life, literally, and his parents had trapped him on a stupid community team with stupid homophobic coaches and stupidly high expectations. In all honesty, he _wanted_ to go to university. He _wanted_ to make something of his life other than his parents' legacy. He knew he was smart enough, maybe even smarter, and he knew that if he could get out this rut he'd have a chance. _One day I'll have the chance. I'll go a week without touching chlorine. I'll eat hamburgers. I'll have sex. I'll watch movies about dogs. It'll be better. It'll all be better... once I get there._

But he was just here, standing on sore feet at the ledge of a pool, his skin prickling in the summer heat, his blue googles warming around his neck like a rubber shackle. Sherlock snapped them to his face as if on instinct.

He didn't have a chance in anything, and the only way things could ever work out in his favor with what _he_ had in mind was if he convinced his parents to stop living vicariously through him and leave him alone. The shrill sound of the whistle broke that hope for him, though, and he pushed his shoulders up and connected his palms in a point. He pushed off the starting block and hurled himself towards the water.

Rushing over his skin, the water broke and cooled him slightly. The relaxation was short-lived, however, when he wiggled his torso and pulled his right arm down toward his hip. He brought it back up and scooped with other then, getting a good four strokes in before he turned his face to the right and breathed. 

He still felt suffocated, though.

Sherlock stared at the tiles beneath him through the water, the chlorine blue sickeningly familiar. He let his mind wander now as he continued to swim to the other end of the pool, eventually touching the cement with his fingertips and tucking himself into a ball before kicking off and pushing back with creaking knees. 

He resumed his hopelessness. He didn't care about winning, but he pretended he did. He didn't care that Mr. Pensy thought he was brilliant, Sherlock knew he was a bigot and loathed him for it. He didn't care that the other boys didn't like him. Actually, that last one was a lie. He did care. He'd been swimming with the Eastern Eels since he was seventeen, his parents' reputation bribing Mr. Pensy to let him join before the age cutoff. That alone had caused him to have an unfair advantage over the other boys, not that his expectations and praise from Mr. Pensy didn't already cause that. The boys looked at him with a curious respect, but it was laden with disgust and jealousy. None of them invited him after practice to the pub, none of them wanted him with them when they went to movies, and none of them even wanted to shop at the general store where he checked bags at night. If they did, they pretended they didn't know him. 

Unfortunately, he knew all of them too well. Somehow, he was able to see everything about each of them within moments of them entering the pool area. He knew where they'd been the night before and how many times they'd wanked that morning. He could tell who they were dating by the blonde strands on their team sweatshirts, and he knew which of them were planning on fooling around. 

But these measly deductions did little for him. They only lessened his self-loathing so much, and if he questioned how he was able to do so too many times, he'd have sworn he was meant to be a detective. Maybe he should have been, then. Maybe this professional swimming life wasn't for him. He'd always liked science, anyway. 

He snapped back into reality as he forgot to breathe. He tried to remember how many laps he'd swam.

Sherlock noticed that he was worn out. He pushed himself harder, and the dull ache in his muscles began to burn as he scooped the heavy water under his cupped palms. He was almost finished with his rounds, but he was already over it. At this point, it was almost incurable. Sherlock wouldn't mind drowning, in all honesty.

He didn't though. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to swim faster - breathless and angry. He turned a few more times and felt that the proper time had passed for him to have either matched or beaten his record time. Coming to a stop at the edge of the pool, he pushed himself up and breathed, his ribs tight. 

Someone was speaking to him, it seemed. He blinked beneath his goggles and removed them from his face. Once his fuzzy blue world refined into natural colors, Mr. Pensy's voice cut through. "Sherlock, you shed two seconds off your time. That's good for you, and great for the rest of the team, but I know you can do better. Not that your average isn't stupendous."

Sherlock blinked again. Mr. Pensy's whisky breath blew into his face and he heard the thrashes and splashes of his teammates behind him. He nodded curtly and moved away from him. The coach called after him, "You alright, champ?"

He waved a hand and was about to nod meekly before he decided against it. He spun around, slapped a huge grin on his face, and said "Of course, coach. I was just thinking about those extra two seconds. I'm fine."

The coach grinned in response. "Right!" His cheeks fell as he turned back to the other five swimmers and shouted something rude at them. 

Continuing on across the cement and reaching a weak hand for his towel, Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced, hiding his head away from the other six boys. Snapping his cap off and rubbing a towel over his neck, he turned back to them, countenance now impassive.

"And how're you lot?" The dry half of the team sat in various levels at the benches. The looked like a perfectly matched set with their navy swimming trunks, goggles, and swim caps. Sherlock remembered that he looked exactly like them.

The boys noted him briefly but ignored him just the same. One of the boys, who Sherlock knew as being accused of false-starting and surfing on many occasions, was the only one to smile at him. He found it odd, but one of the other top swimmers, an older boy named Chris, addressed Sherlock then, breaking the silence.

"The water misses you, Sherlock. It wonders why you jumped in and out so quick. Maybe you should go back down and stay there for a while."

 _I could if I wasn't sure the coach would revive me in an instant._ "That's not what I -"

"We didn't ask you to talk to us. Just swim along your merry way and leave us alone."

"…Right, okay." 

The boy sneered at him, relentless. "And remember to swallow next time you suck the coach's prick, he might make you team captain if you do." 

 _He actually would, I swear it._ "Oh, for God's sakes." 

He turned back after that. His snappy insults were failing him and he really didn't feel like partaking in a verbal war at the moment. He just resumed his spot beside his satchel, sat down in his wet trunks, and pulled the towel over his shoulders. The other boys were starting to finish now, a few of them clambering out of the pool. Sherlock huffed a sigh. Yes, something definitely needed to happen.

Sherlock dipped his head and felt his shoulders sag as a pitter-patter of sandals on cement increased in volume. He heard a huff of a breath and a nervous chuckle, and Sherlock deduced it to be the new boy. He sighed one last time before bringing his eyes up and looking at him.

"Sorry I'm late, coach! I had to take the bus and…" But the new boy's words were drowned as Sherlock's heartbeat replaced it in his ears. 

 _Dear God…_ Everything around him seemed to blur, breath catching in his throat. His mouth fell open slightly as he looked upon the young man talking to Mr. Pensy and wringing his strong hands in a nervous fidget.

He was beautiful. He had thin blond hair that stuck up in the front, and his skin was tanned by the sun. It stretched across his rounder face, hugged his cheeks, and bagged slightly at his eyelids. His eyes darted around the pool, and Sherlock noted that they were as navy as the pool after hours and shimmering with curiosity. The natural glow of the boy was radiating, and even as he was standing a few feet away, Sherlock could feel his brilliance. The boy licked his reddened lips and a timid blush creeped across the bridge of his unique nose. 

Sherlock dropped his gaze from his handsome face to his faded sweatshirt and down to his bright red trunks. Further still, his calves were toned and strong, and Sherlock noticed the roughness of his hands as they flew from his pockets. Meeting his face once again, Sherlock saw his lips moving, heard the strange familiarity in his voice - but he was lost.

This boy was the something he was waiting for, he knew it, and before he could regain control of his body and close his mouth, the boy was walking towards him with a dazzling smile. 

He moved closer and Sherlock smelled jam and lilacs on him. It was intoxicating, and as close as he was now, Sherlock noticed the slight stubble on his chin and lip, along with his propped blond brow. He must have spoken to him, because Sherlock felt his stomach coil and his face heat when the boy laughed.

"Sorry?"

"I said hello. Mr. Pensy told me to introduce myself to you first."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and tried not to leave his gaze at the boy's crotch as he did so. He stood and watched as new boy's startling eyes dropped from Sherlock's own to his naked chest. 

Feeling exposed and rather heated, Sherlock focused on the good half a foot of height he had on the boy. Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed. He realized he hadn't blinked in a while. "Right."

"Watson. John, John Watson. I'm the replacement for Jeremy."

Suddenly Sherlock felt a warm weight in his hand, and he realized with a start that John was shaking it. "Right," the top swimmer said again. _Say something else, you worthless shit._

"You alright?"

 _No._ "Yes, just a little… tired."

The boy laughed again and set his backpack down beside Sherlock's satchel. He suddenly felt strangely insecure about the rather feminine bag. "Same. So, I hear you're the best swimmer on the team."

Feeling the group of boys tense beside him at that, Sherlock found himself finally able to function again. "Well, you can't believe everything you hear."

"Oh, I think I can. Do you mind?" John gestured to his the left of Sherlock as he moved around him and began unpacking his bag. He pulled out a ratty towel, a store-bought swimming cap, and green goggles. He lifted his gaze back to Sherlock, and the taller boy felt a spark shoot straight from his chest to his groin, which wasn't helpful, considering he was damp and his trunks clung to him like a wet paper towel. "Don't mind this," John continued, "I'll be wearing the Eels' blue soon enough."

"The Eels?"

"The name of the team? … Nevermind. So, your name… it's Sherlock?"

He'd been taught to add his last name whenever he introduced himself. "Holmes." 

"When did you start swimming?" John was making pleasant conversation, but Sherlock couldn't necessarily focus as the gorgeous young man in front of him stripped himself of his oversized sweatshirt and revealed a solid, chiseled, tanned torso beneath it. Sherlock squeezed his thighs, thankful for the towel in the way.

* * *

John looked upon the other boy, who seemed momentarily fazed by his partial nudity. He smirked at that, although he found it hard to believe that such a fit boy could be checking him out. Indeed, Sherlock was the most handsome young man he'd ever seen.

As soon as John had finished explaining the predicament with the bus to the coach, he had turned his attention to the dark, curly-headed boy staring at him with curious intent. His eyes were brilliant turquoise, and if John didn't know any better, he'd have sworn they were ponds of their own. Startling him with their intensity, he noted the long face, high cheekbones, and painfully plump lips that were slightly agape as he looked back at him. 

Having mastered the art of hiding his interest for many years, John breathed coolly through his nose and forced himself not to show signs of his interest, or for that matter, his arousal. Especially after Mr. Pensy had just told him the policy of no "homosexual tendencies." He laughed at that in his mind, actually, sure he wouldn't have the opportunity to act on any.

Naturally, he'd been wrong when he approached the "team favorite," as the coach had put it. Sherlock, as regal as he was presented by both the coach and his interesting face, looked then at him like a deer in headlights, and a small blush creeped over the tips of his cheekbones and nose. 

Coming close enough to see the light dusting of freckles underneath the pink, John said hello. He hoped Sherlock hadn't heard his voice crack, but when he didn't respond, he figured he was alright. However, his sanity was less whole when Sherlock stood and rose a good six or seven inches above him. John resisted the urge to drop his gaze at his lean abdomen and smooth, alabaster skin (which strangely was just that, especially for someone who spent every day in the sun), but John used his peripherals and liked what he saw even more when he moved around him. Noting the round curve of his rear and the helpless clinging blue material revealing its shape, John just dropped his eyes and began to unpack his bag. He bit his lip and swore to himself, both cursing and blessing his luck, but he couldn't resist looking away from such a beauty for too long, and he brought his eyes back up just in time to see Sherlock cover his crotch with his crumpled towel.

John tried to pinch himself to wake up, since the idea that the fittest, fastest, most valuable member on the team was a stumbling mess because of him was too dreamlike to be real. However, he just attempted conversation as his mind calmed. 

Asking a stupidly simple question, John smoothed a hand over his chest flirtatiously. Sherlock darted his eyes down but furrowed his brows and blinked it away. 

"My whole life. My parents had me in the water as a baby."

John watched Sherlock's plump, pink lips meet and pull apart as he spoke. His own attraction grew, and he smiled at it. _Christ, he is so fucking hot. This is not okay._

"Okay. I think I've heard the story. Your parents are the Holmes swimmers, right?"

Sherlock moved to sit on the bench beside him and rolled his neck. John let himself gaze at its lean solidity, his inner neck kink flaring. "Used to be," Sherlock said with a bit of snark. "They thrust the legacy onto me as soon as I was conceived."

 _Heh… Thrust._ "That seems harsh."

"What?"

"That seems harsh. You know, to have all this pressure and honor on you, all these expectations, before you even exist."

"Oh. That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" John was dabbing sunscreen on his nose now, and he suddenly felt guilty for forgetting to slather it everywhere earlier that morning. 

"How great, fantastic, lucky I am - that sort of stuff."

John felt himself smiling again. He tried to pull his cheeks back, but they wouldn't budge. "Oh. Well, do you like living in your parents footsteps, then?"

"I'll tell you later."

"What, why?"

Sherlock grinned and nodded toward the pool, where Mr. Pensy was calling the second group. "You're being summoned."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time they see each other always makes me emotional :')  
> Mr. Pensy's an asshat and doesn't get any better, just so you know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was sort of an unspoken agreement between the boys; it seemed they knew that they would be sticking together for the next month.

John Watson was magnificent as he swam. His strong back muscles rippled under his taut skin, and Sherlock found himself gazing through the glassy cerulean surface of the pool at them, his breaststroke stretching and pushing his muscular form to the test. 

Sherlock was sitting at edge of one of the unused lanes, his feet in the water, watching with a lopsided grin when Mr. Pensy came up to him. Unfortunately, Sherlock had to pull his eyes away from the incredibly attractive swimmer and direct his attention at his stern coach. Squinting into the sun, he greeted him formally.

"Sherlock. I see you've met John Watson. I had my doubts about him, but seeing him swim now…" He trailed off and looked towards the water. The other boys from the second group were now clambering out of it, looking for the coach to receive their times. Of course, they rolled their eyes and shook their heads when they found him speaking to Sherlock at the other side of the pool. Sherlock winced at that. He hadn't asked Mr. Pensy to come over. 

John was still swimming as the Irish man spoke, "He's alright. Obviously still a newbie, but alright nonetheless. An acceptable replacement, don't you think?"

The boy in red trunks was lifting himself out of the water and onto the cement now, his solid arms tensing as he raised his wet body up. Sherlock took a moment to admire it from afar, hoping that John couldn't see the lust in his eyes through the green fog of his goggles. "He's… definitely something."

"I want you to watch over him, show him around. Even though we'd planned that he'd replace Jeremy for regionals, I can see that with training and vigilant practice he can become better than he ever was. So I might keep him, and I'm putting my top swimmer in charge of him. Be his first friend on this team, and he'll be up and ready for competition in no time. But remember, Sherlock," Mr. Pensy's dark face was frightening as he tipped it down towards Sherlock, the sun behind him and casting shadows in his strong features. "No faggy stuff."

Sherlock laughed nervously, but forced it to come out like that was the most preposterous idea yet. "Of course not!"

"Right." He began to walk back towards the rest of the team as he said, "I know I can count on you, Sherlock. You won't ever let me down." 

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock thought to himself. _Don't push your luck on that, coach._

Resuming his John-watching, he found that the wet boy wasn't where he last stood. Instead, he was approaching Sherlock, beaming a brilliant smile. Sherlock tried not to stare at the rather large, obvious outline of John's cock through his damp trunks. He did anyway, though.

"Hey, you creepin' on me?" he said, sun catching at the tips of his hair.

"Hmm… If I answer 'Yes,' would you be offended?"

John feigned deep thought. "Depends, if you were, was it a criticizing creep or an admirable one?"

Sherlock's cheeks felt tight, and his chest was strangely warm. _You're ridiculously charming. It's not helpful._ "Admirable. Mr. Pensy told me to keep an eye on you, so I was watching you swim."

The damp boy sat beside Sherlock, unaware that they only had a quick moment before they'd be called back in the water for more practice. Sherlock didn't say anything, though, since the feeling of John's hot skin close to his was too electrifying to let go. Trying to ignore the glares and whispers he felt directed at them, Sherlock sighed and listened to John's soothing voice.

"And? What did you think?"

"You're not gold-medal material yet, but I can tell that you know how to swim. You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

"Sherlock, I asked what _you_ think, not what the coach thinks."

He swallowed hard and tried to time his answer just before Mr. Pensy collected them once more. "I think I want to get to know you better."

John couldn't respond to that, since Sherlock's timing was impeccable. "Boys, come back," Mr. Pensy shouted. "Sherlock, John, stop flirting. It's time to practice."

The boys stood up with two shy, extremely telling smiles on their faces. They walked back toward the group, nearly touching shoulders. Sherlock noted the other boys and Mr. Pensy, and he pushed himself further from John, forcing himself to ignore the sense of disappointment he felt beside him.

* * *

Once with the rest of the group, Sherlock and John had little time to talk. Mr. Pensy shouted at the team and demanded that they take the rest of the practice seriously. They were thrown into the pool and swam for hours, John struggling to keep up with the rest of the boys. Sherlock, of course, finished each run and leg faster than the others, and John had to swallow both his pride and jealously of his new friend.

Sore and wet, the team eventually exited the pool, removed their goggles and caps, and sought the sweet embrace of their dry towels. As the young men dressed and began to filter out of the pool area, Mr. Pensy continued talking about his plans for finals, as well as his grievances about the team's lack of motivation.

John, after spending a day with the team, noted how the other teammates treated Sherlock, whispering about him with muttered insults, but he assumed Sherlock would tell him about it later and held his tongue for the moment. He dried and slipped on his sweatshirt before finding Sherlock and sticking with him. They waited together until everyone else left; Mr. Pensy just nodding at Sherlock and asking John if he had somewhere to be. John replied that he would wait for the bus, at which the coach responded with a proud comment directed at Sherlock.

Sherlock turned away from John after Mr. Pensy disappeared and explained that every day, after practice, he let him stay late and lock up the pool with his own set of keys before he left for work in the evening. John had nodded and stayed put. There was sort of an unspoken agreement between the boys; it seemed they knew that they would be sticking together for the next month. They were both pleased about that, and took no time in moving around each other as if they'd been friends for years.

John rolled his neck and let the weight of the moment set in. They were poolside and alone, tired and strained, and he had a strange feeling something was about to happen.

He was the first to make the assumption that they'd continue their conversation from earlier directly after practice ended. He lay back on the wall of the dressing room and tucked his hands behind his head coolly. He looked at Sherlock with half-lidded eyes, noting how his loose sweatshirt exposed a strip of pale stomach when he raised his arms and stretched. He let his eyes drop lower to Sherlock's bum, secretly wishing that Sherlock would turn and catch him staring.

"So," John said. "You said you wanted to get to know me?"

Letting his eyes stay at his rear as Sherlock turned around, John took a moment before bringing his eyes back up to Sherlock's moving lips. "Yes. Where did you come from? When did you start swimming? How do you feel about Mr. Pensy?"

John laughed, "Slow down with the questions, investigator. I'll tell you. Of course, I'll want answers from you in return." _And a blowjob, if you're down._

"Fine. Go ahead."

Shifting his hands under his head, he watched as Sherlock walked over to him and sat beside him expectantly. "Well, I lived with my parents and my sister on a country farm until I moved in with her down here a few years ago. Our house isn't spectacular, but I'm just trying to find somewhere to go right now, so we don't need much. I _was_ studying to be a doctor, but the university fund isn't really existent, so I'm taking a few years to work up some money."

Sherlock cut him off. "How old are you?"

His lips tugged into a smug grin, "Twenty-one. You?"

A quizzical brow popped up and into Sherlock's curled bangs at his answer. His eyes crinkled in a smile as he said,"You're not done answering yet, grandpa. What did you do on the farm?"

"I fantasized a lot. Don't - not like that. Not until later, at least." John chuckled nervously, wondering if he crossed the line. Sherlock's knowing smirk and attentive eyes told him he didn't, though. "I thought about different universes, sort of. Like what jobs I could have. Maybe Iwas born to be a lion tamer. Maybe I'd be a famous scuba diver in ten years, discovering different types of coral. I mean, what else could I do? Not much, on a farm. I did have a pond, though. My friends came over and swam in it during summer, and I just sort of lived pleasantly like that until I went to college and began dealing with life."

"How did you like school?"

"It was alright. My studying skills were subpar, but I still tried my hardest on exams that I needed especially to get into medicine. I wasn't especially popular, but I wasn't an outcast. Not that that's…" John cleared his throat, suddenly acutely aware that Sherlock's intense gaze wasn't letting up any time soon.

"Any romances?"

The question he'd been dreading. His sexual and romantic history wasn't nonexistent, but it definitely wasn't something to wear on his sleeve, either. Especially once his parents started questioning him about it. John felt that he'd had to be the "normal" one in the family, since Harry came out at an early age. So he told his parents about the girlfriends and left out the bits about the boyfriends, or rather, the sexual escapades in the back of cars. 

 _Hopefully soon,_ he thought as he looked upon Sherlock. "A bit. In high school and college I had some flings. Potential girlfriends came in and out of my life so much that I'd feel bad if I told you how many hearts I might have broken."

He darted his eyes aside as he spoke and felt Sherlock tense beside him. "Girlfriends?"

Meeting his eyes once more, John saw unmistakable fear and regret in Sherlock's face. He quickly fixed it. "And boyfriends, but my parents didn't know about them."

Sherlock's face softened and he blushed. "Right. Anyone right now?"

"Weren't you asking me about my childhood a few moments ago?"

"Yes, but I got sidetracked by your love life."

"If you could call it that."

"Hm. Let's wrap this up then. Childhood: did you have a best friend? Any particular memories that you'll be recounting on your deathbed?"

John pursed his lips, "Ooh. Don't say that. It freaks me out."

"What, death?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah. Okay. I did have a good friend, actually, when I was seventeen. This one time, he was staying at my house up on the farm, and we were watching old movies in the middle of the night up in my loft when all of a sudden he said, 'I wish we could take a walk right now.' I jumped off the bed and said, 'So let's do it.' We ended up walking all around our property and snooping on the only other family that lived near us. It was a long night, but by the end of it, we found ourselves climbing a tree and talking about life. He had this idea that life is really pointless, and no people are better than any others. He thought that success is nonexistent and that no matter how many happy memories you have on your deathbed, you still die like any other person. Like life just exists because it does, there's no _point_. Whereas personally, I think the point of life is to _make_ life have a point. And, in a smaller sense, to first find happiness for yourself, and then help other people find it. I am also a big supporter of the idea that everyone should try to create something and send it off into the world. … I don't know, I just remember that night. We fell asleep with the heaviness of the conversation still lingering. I miss him."

John could see the existential gears turning in Sherlock's head as he listened, but that last bit of information snapped his curiosity back and he asked, "Why, what happened?"

His stomach churned, although he knew bringing him up would eventually end in that question. "Uh, well, he sort of…"

"God, no…"

"Yeah. It's okay, though. It's been a while. He'd want me to be continue on and be happy, even if _he_ couldn't, and I think sitting here alone with some bright-eyed swimmer after practice is a good start." _Definitely a good start._

Sherlock's sad eyes sparkled and he smiled and dipped his head in the way that Cal used to. "Alright, then. Fast-forwarding to now - how do you feel about Mr. Bigot?"

"Prick. 'No dating teammates,' what the fuck is that about? What are we gonna do, swim sloppier if we have tea together before practice? Dumb." John hoped that Sherlock understood what he meant by that, and by the way their conversation was going, he was sure he did. "Alright. I've answered almost everything, haven't I?"

"No. When did you start swimming?"

"In the pond on the farm, I said that."

"Oh, yes. And do you have any romantic interests right now?"

John knocked his knee against Sherlock's again. "Interests? Yes. Relationships? No."

He swore he heard Sherlock sigh with content at that. "I see."

"Okay, my turn to ask you. First of all - how old are you?"

* * *

"Nineteen."

"You're just a baby!"

"Shut up."

The sight of John's grinning face, so close beside his, was breathtaking. All of the lines and almost-wrinkles in his face squished together when he laughed and his freckles disappeared when he blushed.

Sitting here, next to him, hearing about his farm life, his old friend, his boyfriends - it was all surreal. It was as if the something Sherlock had wanted to happen was being dangled in front of his face, dipped in chocolate and flecked in gold. Sherlock wondered if it'd be snatched from his fingertips if he tried to grab it.

John spoke again, the morning sun hiding behind a cloud and casting a grey afternoon gloom around them, the pool now still and dark. "Okay. Childhood. Parents? Siblings? How is it being a 'legacy?'"

"Hell, it's hell." Sherlock was sure that was the first time he'd ever been so painfully honest about it. He'd had to fake it up until now. Already, John Watson was crumbling his facade. "My parents seem to regret my existence because they had to retire to take care of me. I have an older brother, who would most likely have had the 'honor' of carrying on the Holmes name if he weren't incapable of excessive exercise. His name's Mycroft. We grew up in a nice house, the one I live in still, but Mycroft moved to London for university. He's eight years older and has left me here alone. Not that we're particularly close, or anything."

"And school?"

"Surprisingly amazingly good at it. Classes that actually taught me something were well-received, and I passed all my exams with high marks. Of course, there were always those certain classmates that made it almost unbearable, but then again, all I was worth was a pair of arms and legs to swim with, so my parents never cared much about that."

"Do you like them, outside of the swim pressure?"

Sherlock took a moment to try and think of an answer to that question, but he found that John's navy eyes flooded his thoughts instead. _John,_ his mind said, _You really are incredible. Thank you for asking me questions like this and not assuming I'm only a great swimmer. I hope that you think I'm more than that, anyway._ "I like my mum. She used to read to me before I went to bed. She can sometimes separate swim from other 'normal kid' stuff. I know that if I gave it up, she'd be extremely disappointed, but she wouldn't disown me."

"Not like your dad would," John guessed.

"Not like my dad would, yes. So I have a lot to deal with. That sounds bad, but it's true. Here, Mr. Pensy expects so much of me, and the boys don't like me. When I come home, my parents are still waiting for me to win the Olympics."

"I noticed that," the other boy said. "That the rest of team doesn't like you so much. They're just jealous because you're so good."

"And you're not, are you?" Sherlock asked playfully, hoping that John would tell him that he would still want to sit with him on the cement if he were the slowest.

"'Course I am. Anyway, next question. What about friends? Memories?"

 _Of course you are. Of course you're jealous. Because I'm nothing else but a winner. Just someone to be jealous of._ "Not many, really. Kids who knew me for me thought I was too snobby to try and befriend, while those who knew my parents and their intentions didn't want to even make an effort. They really affected my life more than they know. I've never had a best friend, even."

"Well, you have one now." John beamed at him.

Sherlock smiled in return, although his grin had a less-than-innocent tweak in it. _Best friends who someday rim each other, you mean?_ "Well, nice to meet you, best friend. I'm pretty unsociable."

"And I'm the replacement swimmer. What a pair." 

They shook hands, and John's soft skin disrupted by the occasional callous made Sherlock's stomach drop. "Perfect."

"Okay, next. What about romance? Girlfriends, boyfriends, sex?"

"Girlfriends? Not really my area. Boyfriends? Like, two. Sex? Not in a while."

John popped a brow, "And when was the last time?"

"You didn't answer that one!"

"You didn't ask."

"Fine. Well, about six months ago. My last boyfriend. Actually, less of a boyfriend and more of a…"

"Fuck toy?" The way John's teeth scraped his bottom lip as he said that made Sherlock's impure thoughts spiral completely out of control.

"Well, I was his. ...My parents know, but they still don't like me dating during the season. Not that I have a constant string of dates, or something."

Sherlock wondered if John had scooted closer when he wasn't paying attention, because he suddenly felt sexually charged electricity course through their brushing shoulders and knees. Of course, their hands were still innocently on themselves, no matter how much Sherlock wanted to just let his fingers find their way under John's red trunks. 

"C'mon," John said, "You're an extremely attractive guy. Don't tell me you don't get dates."

"John, I don't have friends, you think someone's going to want to hang around me?"

"Yes. I do."

"You think someone would want to hang out with me, or _you_ want to hang out with me?"

"Is that not what we're doing?"

Sherlock dipped his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "If you answer me with a question one more time, I swear to God - "

"Hey! I'm the one supposed to be asking questions!"

"Fine. Yes. We're hanging out. After practice, I usually spend the five hours before work just here anyway, although I don't know why you've taken it upon yourself to stay with me." _That sounds pathetic. Five hours of sitting beside a grimy swimming pool. I don't have anywhere to go, but still._ John rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. _If it's so obvious, new best friend, then we should be snogging already._

"Tell me about your last boyfriend," the charming boy beside him said.

"No, I don't want to. He was shit. We didn't have any middle-of-the-night walks or anything. He just sort of came 'round my house, shagged me, and left. I don't think we even ever watched a movie together."

"Your new best friend has mentally added that to his to-do list. The movie, I mean." Now John was the one blushing.

Sherlock swallowed, strangely willing to discuss his sex life with the blond farm boy, "Not that I didn't want to have sex with him. I did. He was really fit, and every time he came over, I liked to be with him. I definitely count every shag as valid, mostly because he was sort of good, but that doesn't mean his text hurt any less."

"Ooh, break-up by text? That sucks."

"Yeah. Alright. We're all caught up. You have to tell me about your last sexual escapade now."

"Is that how it works?"

"Yes."

"Fine. My sister's, Harry's, girlfriend was having a party and one of her friends and I ended up spending the night in the guest room about four months ago. It wasn't that great."

"And nothing since then?"

"No. But it's not like I'm constantly the one to be in a relationship either. I think I've had five in total, although some were fleeting and others were long term."

"You know, as much as I want to continue playing the question game, I don't think I want to hear any more about your relationships."

"Sherlock, best friends aren't supposed to get jealous of their best friend's girlfriends and boyfriends."

How long had Sherlock been smiling? Too long. "Maybe this best friendship won't work out, then."

"Yeah, maybe not."

At that, a tense half minute passed, in which Sherlock and John just stared at each other. So much had been revealed in their conversation. John's interest in men, Sherlock's interest in men, John's family, Sherlock's family, John's best friend, Sherlock's lack of one. The swimming protege felt as though he and John had clicked so well that it was almost as if he was there, watching as a ten-year-old John pretended to be a scuba diver in his pond. He wondered if John felt the same, although their heated prolonged eye contact made him hopeful.

Hopeful, but still cautious. "I have to go the bathroom," Sherlock said.

"Do you really?" John said as Sherlock raised himself from the cement, knees creaking. John's handsome face looking up at him was something that Sherlock wasn't planning on forgetting, and he hesitated before turning around and walking towards the dressing rooms.

"No, I have to perform a Satanic sacrifice around back if I want the Dark King to authenticate our new friendship."

"You really are a weird one, Sherlock Holmes. Give my best to the lamb and make sure you don't fuck up the Latin."

Sherlock gave him a snarky grin and left the poolside. He dipped around the corner of the dressing rooms and checked to see John laughing to himself. He moved farther away and leaned against the gate, the city behind him unaware of anything that had just transpired.

He pulled out his phone from his sweater pocket and dialed with fumbling fingers, unsure of why he had to interrupt the wonderful moment to make the call. 

Wracked with self doubt and insecurity, Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear and held his breath at every ring. Eventually, the line connected.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. "I need your help. I think I seriously like this guy."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLIRTY DIALOGUE  
> FLIRTY DIALOGUE EVERYWHERE


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, he knew that right now was the time to try and sort out all that had happened in the past day.

After Mycroft had given Sherlock the "Don't get involved/Caring is dangerous" speech, Sherlock pleaded that he felt too much just to drop it, and even if anything were to happen, it'd be both their heads on spikes in Mr. Pensy's living room. Sherlock then swore he could hear Mycroft roll his eyes, at which he signed off with final, "Well, we're already best friends, so at least there's that."

He'd hung up with a timid grin and returned to John, who just looked up from playing with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. Asking how the Satanic ritual went with a smile, John reminded Sherlock what sort of things were worth fighting for.

They'd then spent the next hour learning more about each other, flirting up a storm, and bagging on the other members of the team. John knew of the constant teasing Sherlock received from Chris and his gang, and he was surprisingly riled about it until Sherlock managed to tell him it didn't matter. John wasn't convinced. Sherlock was in awe of his loyalty and protection and it caused his school boy attraction to rise to a rather dangerous level of affection. He was sure something more would have happened if they remained alone any longer. Luckily, their bums had gotten cold and sore from sitting on the cement, and Sherlock eventually locked up the pool. They then strolled around the neighborhood together, window shopping and snacking on candy. They took turns riding Sherlock's bike, but after John nearly fell over into the gutter, they decided to just walk it.

Neither of them had ever been so happy, and it got to the point where they could finish each other's sentences and imitate the other's type of speech. Of course, they kept an eye out for anyone from the team, but when they dipped into musty antique shops, their fear melted away. They talked too loudly when trying on silly hats, inevitably maddening the old woman who worked there. She kicked them out, and Sherlock laughed so hard that he had to keel over to breathe.

By the time Sherlock had to go to work, John dropped him off at the general store with a huge grin. Watching Sherlock disappear behind the sliding glass doors, he then walked to the nearest bus stop, caught a ride home, floated through his front door, received a strange look from Harry on the way to his room, flopped on his bed, and covered his beaming face with his hands.

He slept soundly that night, dreaming of dark curls and brilliant eyes.

The next morning, he leapt out of bed, eager to make it to practice and see Sherlock. He smiled quietly to himself the entire bus ride there.

The tall, lean boy was reclined on the wall, phone in hand, the moment he popped through the gates. Mr. Pensy and the other boys hadn't arrived yet.

"Hey, you," John said.

"Hello." The look on Sherlock's face as John approached him was priceless, and he had to stop himself from greeting him with a kiss.

"Is this what being early feels like?"

"Yes. Lonely, isn't it?"

"Not anymore."

That same tense, familiar silence set in between them before Sherlock raised himself off the wall and breathed in sharply. "You know what I realized last night?"

 _That you discovered you have an earth-shattering attraction to me? Or is that you agree that we should probably commence snogging and fucking on the daily soon?_ "That I'm the best friend you've ever had?"

"A best friend whose cellphone number I don't have."

"Wow, really? Alright, gimme." John took Sherlock's phone from his nimble fingers and noticed that a contact with his full name on it was already open. He added his number, home address, and marked his birthday.

Handing the phone back to Sherlock, John used his other hand to rummage through the front pocket of his backpack and pull out an outdated flip-phone.

"That's your phone?" Sherlock asked with a sneer.

"Fuck you. Call me."

Sherlock raised his own sleek smartphone to his ear. It rang a few times as John looked around playfully, eventually discovering the buzzing phone in his hand. Sherlock spoke first, "John Watson?"

"Yes, this is he."

"I think that today at practice we should try and keep our best friend levels a bit lower in case any of the other teammates get jealous."

"Sounds like a plan. Are we on for afterwards, then?"

But Sherlock hung up the call before he could answer, his pale eyes widening on a spot behind John. He followed Sherlock's gaze and saw Chris come through the gate. The mean-looking boy laughed at them and dragged his posse behind him. John pursed his lips. He felt Sherlock look back at him before preoccupying himself elsewhere by turning away.

"John, don't," Sherlock muttered. 

Reeling with anger, John crossed quickly to the bully. "You're Chris?"

"Yes. And you're the replacement none of us are supposed to fuck." He dropped his golden eyes to John's feet, soaking in every bit. The redhead bared his crooked teeth. "Even if I were a fag, I wouldn't want to."

"Stop bullying Sherlock."

"Standing up for your boyfriend now? I'll have to tell Mr. Pensy about this, then maybe _I'll_ be the new favorite."

 _My boyfriend._ John tried to be calm and mature, although he wanted nothing more than to sink his fingernails into Chris's red neck. This was silly; not even two minutes did he get to spend with Sherlock and already he was warding off the bad guys. It was comical and completely unnecessary, but John couldn't deny that felt the need to protect his new friend. "You know that he'd do the opposite if he knew you were teasing his favorite swimmer. It's _Sherlock,_ Chris. Just let up for a while and complain about him when he's not around." He whispered the last bit, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't catch it.

He must have, though, because John felt Sherlock shift behind him. Chris's eyes darted from John to Sherlock before he muttered a homophobic slur at them and backed away.

"We're supposed to be a team, Chris, as much as Mr. Pensy's favoritism makes that unclear," John shouted after him.

But he was gone, already mingling with the other boys that began filing in through the gates. Mr. Pensy then appeared, his morning grump painfully apparent.

"I'm sorry," John turned back to Sherlock. "I just needed to say something."

"No, you didn't." Sherlock looked terrified and just a bit angry, and John wondered how Sherlock was so incapable of seeing his worth.

"Yes, I did. You're my friend and he wasn't making life any easier for you. You have too much shit to deal with already."

Sherlock walked past John, his elbow brushing John's chest. "He's not going to stop."

"Then ignore him. Sherlock," John grabbed his wrist and pulled him around, aware but uncaring if the team saw. "Yesterday you told me you'd never had friends. This is what they do for each other. Deal with it."

Snapping his arm out of John's fingers, Sherlock continued on and joined the rest of the team. John shook his head and laughed hollowly. Forcing Sherlock to see in himself what John saw in him was going to be a lot of work.

* * *

Throughout the rest of practice, John and Sherlock exchanged glances from opposite ends of the pool, their natural chemistry restored to normal by the time they were mocking Mr. Pensy behind his back. The other boys were curious, but John's confrontation with Chris had spread, and nobody dared to defy the coach's favorite, and by consequence, his new companion.

Sherlock had never had a better time while swimming. After a few laps, some legs of the relay, and more stylistic practice, Sherlock and John would take the short break to dunk underwater and wave to each other. Of course, when they actually had to swim, inundated in Mr. Pensy's commands, both boys pushed themselves to the brinks. 

Sherlock pushed harder, straining his muscles until they burned. Now he had to impress John. Now he had to stay the best for someone whose praise was worth it.

Meanwhile, John had trouble keeping up with the other boys, especially Sherlock. He wasn't the fastest, and his muscles were unaccustomed to being pushed so hard for so long. He felt like the butt end of a joke with every snotty glance directed at him, but he was able to shake it off with one look towards Sherlock.

Practice seemed longer now that John was anxious to get to their strangely safe few hours afterwards. He wondered how it'd only been a single day knowing Sherlock, but after considering how many steps they'd taken in one short afternoon, their closeness seemed more plausible. John watched fondly as Sherlock climbed out of the pool, straightened himself proudly, and snapped off his swim cap. He tousled his curls and rolled his shoulders, wincing. 

When his eyes met John's, there was another unspoken agreement that the tension from earlier was strangely out of place, and that their time to be alone would come soon enough.

* * *

Raking his fingers through his hair, John sighed. "Sorry about earlier… I should've asked you if I could - "

"No, it's okay." Sherlock buckled his satchel and met John's eyes with a feeble smile. There was something tentative in them, and John knew he had to reassure Sherlock of his intentions. 

 _Well, the pure ones, at least._ "I just wanted to make sure Chris got it in his head that he can't mess with you."

With a nervous laugh, Sherlock tugged on the hem of his sweatshirt. "Of course he can. It's not like I need to be protected."

They were alone once more, but the charge between them was much less innocent than the day before. After walking around town for hours and acting nothing short of a couple with incredible chemistry, both Sherlock and John were aware that today might finally be the time to bring attention to it.

"Yes, you do. At least sometimes." Even as John struggled with emotional confessions, he'd be damned if Sherlock didn't know how he felt. How he'd never met someone as fantastically attractive, intelligent, creative, witty, clever, or friendly in all his life; how he felt like someone was dropping hot coals down his throat every time Sherlock smiled at him with crinkly eyes. Looking upon Sherlock now, he wondered if he could maneuver his words around to make them show it. John dug his hands in his pockets as he waited for Sherlock to respond. He didn't slide down the wall of the dressing room this time, he stood his ground and stared up at Sherlock. 

As familiar as his face was, Sherlock's every move and twitch as he calculated the connotations of John's words were undeniably fresh. "Why?"

"Because you're my friend, and I don't want people making fun of you? I thought you would have understood that by now, even if you haven't in the past." _Do you really not know how this "crush" thing works? I don't want anyone fucking with you, and if it takes a ridiculously brash series of events for me to show that, then so be it._

Sherlock's lips met and parted as he spoke, and John wanted nothing more than to be between them and wake up to them inches from his face in the morning. "No, I understand that. I'm not mad or anything. I'm happy that you did that, it's just… surprising. So thanks."

John decided not to question it any further. He felt stupid enough for trying to make Sherlock understand, and if it took him a while to, John wouldn't mind. He was just happy to have met him. He forced himself to smile wider, but noting how Sherlock smiled back made it easy, and soon they were both grinning stupidly at each other. "Sure," he said.

Before John could fall further into the strange swirling colors of Sherlock's eyes, he surprised him and exclaimed, "Oh! I'm supposed to show you the dressing rooms."

"Is that an innuendo?" _Shit, that might have been -_

"Hah, hardly. Mr. Pensy actually wanted me to. I totally forgot to yesterday, though."

John joined Sherlock as he began walking toward the gate around back. He nudged his shoulder, "You were just too distracted by my charm."

Sherlock huffed a silent laugh and looked down, "That's exactly it, actually."

"Really? Tell me, Sherlock, on a level from one to ten, ten being blindingly so, how charming am I?" Somehow, there was a breach in their bubble and John found he could weave himself through. Somehow, he knew that right now was the time to try and sort out all that had happened in the past day. _One day,_ John thought, _It's been one sodding day._

" ...Eleven."

"You're shitting me."

"Mmm… Nope." Sherlock fumbled with his entrusted keys and opened the door to the dressing rooms with a satisfied smirk. "After you," he gestured inside.

John walked through and was immediately met by the smell of damp clothes and musty showers. The room was entirely blue, lockers separated off into sections with showers scattered all around the walls. He noted that each shower had a bench, a silver shower head, and a blue curtain. He wondered why the rest of the team didn't hang out here more often, considering it was there for them to use and rather spacious. He asked about it.

"Nobody wants to be in here," Sherlock replied. "Strange things have happened."

Placing his hand on the closest cool blue tile dramatically, John asked, "Hm? Like what?"

"There's a rumor that it's haunted… Other people tell stories of when Mr. Pensy caught two boys doing it in a shower during the nineties," Sherlock replied from behind him, the soft jingle of the keys in his fingers the only other sound.

"I believe it," John moved deeper into the room until he quickly darted ahead and hid in one of the old showers. Feeling playful, John was silent and waited for Sherlock to seek him.

He remained still in the hollow chamber for what seemed like far too long. Finally, Sherlock pulled back the curtain with a laugh. "Believe which? The ghost or the shower sex?"

Grabbing a handful of Sherlock's sweatshirt and pulling him inside, John flicked his eyes to Sherlock's lips, which were now tantalizing close. "Both."

John took a moment to revel in the heat emanating off Sherlock's cheeks and neck, his eyes still locked at the plump pink bottom lip, which was drawn in between teeth and slipped out with a slight bounce, glistening and damp.

Unable to stand it any longer, John closed his eyes and pressed his face in the direction of Sherlock's. His mouth met his with soft compression, and John pulled back after half a second nervously.

Fortunately, Sherlock was the one to capture John's lips once again, and he deepened the kiss as he pressed in. John was pushed back with the force, but the wall behind him helped his weak knees stay sturdy, and he let Sherlock kiss him passionately. His hands weaved around Sherlock's back and pulled his body close, the loose material of Sherlock's hoodie collapsing against his firm back.

Before John could try to slip his tongue between Sherlock's wonderfully soft lips, the younger man pulled back and dropped his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"John…"

"Are you…?"

"Six months. It's been six months."

 _Oh. Right._ "Do you not want - "

"Four months for you."

Sherlock flicked his eyes up and met John's. They were so beautiful this close, John could hardly stand it. "True. What're you…?"

"Let's try and blow both our last experiences out of the water, okay?"

John couldn't help but laugh at that. _Was that a fucking pun? Jesus, I picked a great one._ His bubbly chuckle made the small rectangular shower warmer, and he kissed Sherlock's cheek before answering. "Of course. We'll make those nineties geeks jealous and the ghost blush."

Smiling before meeting John's mouth once more, Sherlock pushed into John and tucked his knee between his legs. Their desperate movement and frantic grabbing and pushing soon became a rhythmic sway, their jawlines working under hot skin as they angled their lips in an ardent kiss. 

Both John and Sherlock were soon relentless, licking and sucking and biting at every bit of the other that they tasted. John had taken the first few seconds to bless his life over, marvel in the feel of Sherlock's plump lips on his neck, but soon he was responding with fever and letting his desire drive himself deeper onto Sherlock's knee. 

Sherlock's hands were ghosting under his sweatshirt and over his skin, leaving John's nerves ignited, until they swooped down his back and onto his bum. The large, flat palms of his hands curled into a cup shape and squeezed, pulling John by his arse into his crotch.

John ground his hips in response, the thin material of their swim trunks doing little to hide their straining cocks. The feeling of Sherlock's against his own made John bare his teeth and nip at Sherlock's ear, and he tried to hold out as long as he could before he shifted his hips so their erections met fully. John found that his own hands were inching further apart from the center of Sherlock's back, one traveling into his curls, the other onto his arse. He mirrored Sherlock's actions and squeezed the tight muscle of Sherlock's bum, which elicited a pleased groan from the pair of lips sucking red marks on John's neck.

Seeing and touching Sherlock's body in a place so tacky seemed like no better irony to his own depravity, but John cast off the thought as his hands wandered helplessly over the attractive swimmer's form.

Unable to resist the tempting solidity of Sherlock's cock merely through his swim trunks, John moved both his hands to Sherlock's hips and dropped to his knees. Sherlock let out a soft sigh of consent as John moved his face in line with his crotch.

* * *

Sherlock looked down at John, still wondering how this turn of events was real. How John was so understanding and protective, yet so bloody _hot_ at the same time. 

Noting the prominent bulge in front of his nose, John pushed his face in and mouthed at it. Sherlock dropped his head and sagged into the wall for support. John's hot mouth was sliding and enveloping him, and he panted and gritted his teeth, struggling to hold out. 

John must have noted that he was impatient because soon his fingers were untying Sherlock's trunks and slipping them lower. Returning his hands to Sherlock's hips, John drew his firm cock into his mouth and lapped at it passionately, closing his eyes and sucking his cheeks in. 

Sherlock let out a moan, his fingers slipping down the cool tile as they twitched in pleasure. For the next few minutes, he let John work on him. Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed his hips in, John's tongue rolling and swirling around him. He reveled in the feeling of complete safety, in the assurance that John would make it great for him, knowing he wouldn't leave him needy and restless once he came. He was sure that this would be the case because every time he was close to coming, John would move his lips to hook onto the ridge of the head of his cock and flick his navy eyes up, waiting for Sherlock's sign to continue.

Pushing himself off the walls and moving his hands into John's thin hair, he bucked his groin into his lips and groaned as John's mouth swallowed him to the base. Every hot, wet, slippery inch of John's mouth and throat contracted around him, and Sherlock tried to resist pulling John by the hair onto his cock. Luckily, before Sherlock could release and spiral into a world of pleasure, John had released him and ducked under his legs.

He let his hands trail the insides of Sherlock's thighs as he stooped under the archway and sat himself behind Sherlock. His fingers followed and immediately pulled the loose hem of Sherlock's trunks down over his rear.

Thanking the fates once again, Sherlock moved to lean all of his weight on the wall, his hands pressed firmly at his sides as he awaited treatment. He spread his legs as far as the trunks at the base of his bum let him and smiled to himself when he felt a dusting of plush lips over his arsecheek.

The boy who called himself his best friend moved his mouth closer into Sherlock's cleft until his cold nose touched Sherlock's tailbone. Sherlock sparked with pleasure as he felt something warm and wet flick over his opening. John's tongue continued to tease him until he let out an impatient groan, and he pressed the flat of his tongue over the tight ring of muscle. He licked long, heady lines over it until Sherlock was wide and needy, and only then did he slip his tongue inside and rim him properly.

It was unbelievable, how well John treated him. It was as if every twitch, every shiver that racked through Sherlock's body was calculated and read; each breath that hitched with a slither of John's expert tongue was noted. Sherlock had never felt so good, their experience so far already topping everything and anything Sherlock had tried. 

For the next few minutes, John passionately readied Sherlock, moving his face and tongue as if he were kissing Sherlock's mouth. Just as Sherlock was about to lose control for a second time, John pulled back knowingly and moved to stand up behind him, tugging Sherlock's sweatshirt off as he stood. 

Feeling John's bare skin on his back, Sherlock knew that John had removed his own, and he turned his face in the direction of John's excited breaths just in time to taste a searing kiss. 

They broke it off only when John's wandering hands became an unrelenting issue. While his right settled at Sherlock's taut hip, the other wrapped itself around his cock and began stroking him slowly. 

Sherlock let his head droop again, but John's lips caught up to his ear just in time to say, "Sherlock?"

He could only moan and grumble in response, "John…"

"Alright?"

If he weren't naked, horny, and needy, Sherlock would have sworn that John had suddenly become an integral part of his life. He would have cast aside his insecurity and problematic talent to ponder his sentimentality over a boy he'd just met. He'd have wondered how John could be so caring when he was sure all he wanted to do was shag him already. Sherlock crinkled his nose and panted, "Yes, John." _Thank you,_ he added mentally.

John then brought his lips to Sherlock's neck and his sharply cut pelvis to his rear. Sherlock felt the calming presence of John's hand at his hip disappear and reappear when there was a solid pressure at his opening. It pressed on further until John was sliding in, wet and snug, Sherlock sheathing him tightly.

Both swimmers shook with a satisfied tremor before John began to pull and push inside Sherlock slowly. Sherlock stretched to accommodate him, John's girth wider than any of his previous participants. He was full and content and sizzling, and he only wanted John to touch him more, bring him to the edge, let him finally tip over.

He did just that. John Watson thrusted into Sherlock steadily and rhythmically at first, brushing his lips over Sherlock's chlorine-scented shoulders and back as he did so, but it soon grew into merciless fucking, complete with bite marks and hickies.

Gripping Sherlock's hip and pumping his eager cock, John rolled his naked body against Sherlock's, plunging so deeply into him that Sherlock felt the tickle of his sparse blond hair at his tailbone.

Sherlock was nearly gone after ten minutes, moaning loudly and rocking backwards into him, but John was an expert at playing Sherlock's body by this point, and he brought him close and pulled off, knowing the next time he coiled up in pleasure would really worth it. With John's hand grasping him while his pelvis rammed into him, Sherlock came with a guttural moan and shuddered, John exhaling a sharp groan and finishing inside him soon after.

It was a half a second before either of them moved. Sherlock came down from his high, his thighs twitching periodically, while John traced circles into Sherlock's pale skin with his thumb. Time seemed to escape them. Sherlock eventually shimmied himself off of John and picked up his trunks, but he was in no hurry to leave and he moved away from the sticky part of the wall and brought John with him.

Pulling the shirtless boy so he brushed up against his own naked chest, Sherlock kissed John with swollen lips, nearly dozing off on his shoulder. He felt so at peace, so well taken care of, so properly _fucked,_ yet he knew that their happiness would be short-lived the next day.

Mr. Pensy and the rest of the team couldn't know of this, although Sherlock wasn't even sure what "this" was. He knew he was strongly attracted to John, and somehow, John to him, but the nature and reason of their actions was still unclear.

He didn't dare ask, though. He just let John touch him, hold him, and kiss him because he wanted nothing more in the world than for it to happen. And it was happening now, in their safe haven of a musty locker room shower, whose closed, ratty old curtains contained their wonderful secret.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but like what's hotter than wall/locker room sex? Very little, that's what.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stayed with Sherlock until his shift ended like he'd promised.

Sherlock's parents were the first to notice his improved mood. They caught him singing in the shower and rubbing product into his hair as if it mattered. He ate his breakfast in full and cleaned his room with vigor.

In fact, after that first day with John, Sherlock's sleep schedule improved, and he woke up with drool on his face and his curls all mussed up. 

Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes assumed it was because of Sherlock's fantastic reviews from Mr. Pensy. In reality, Sherlock was falling apart physically from practice, while his mental and emotional state were on the rise due to one John Watson.

In the past five days, John and Sherlock continued to meet after practice to have sex. However, no matter how heady and caught up they both were during the act, they acted like inseparable best friends any time else. Even Mr. Pensy was in awe of how well they worked together, since it seemed Sherlock's stylistic swimming and professional aura had affected John and caused his average time to drop.

Neither of them had said anything in regards to official labels, although John was heavy with compliments and flirting, sometimes so much that Sherlock thought him lying. But Sherlock knew that somehow, beneath the pretentious laughter and the kissing Mr. Pensy's arse, he was worth more than his talent, and John seemed to prove that to him every day. 

On top of that, Sherlock had received and given the best orgasms in his life, even those that rivaled the discovery of his kinks in high school. He was smitten and completely pleased with the turn of events, even though there was the occasional twist in his gut about the validity of John's feelings for him. 

They were at Sherlock's work now, after having spent most of the weekend perusing town and dipping into coffee shops to deduce strangers. Sherlock stood behind the counter, his ugly green apron contrasting his light eyes and dark hair. John leaned on his elbows at the end of the conveyer, smiling at Sherlock as he packaged groceries and rung up customers.

The general store was stocked with shelves upon shelves of food and household wares, and its unnatural yellow light glowed from outdated fixtures high above the aisles. It was around half past eight in the evening, and John seemed to be getting antsy. He'd insisted that he'd stay with Sherlock his entire shift, but upon learning that that was multiple boring hours of baggage, John entertained himself by teasing Sherlock after every customer disappeared out the sliding doors. 

"Are you done yet?" he asked, cocking his head playfully as Sherlock smiled at a little old lady who'd just bought three bottles of brandy.

"No, I told you, my shift ends at nine. Don't lean on there - "

"I know you told me, and I told you that I don't mind waiting. That doesn't mean I can't hope you get off early."

Sherlock checked the location of his manager, who was mindlessly typing on his phone across the store. He turned back to John and spoke to him firmly, although he was sure his work uniform made him less than threatening. "I don't know why you insisted on coming with me, but I promise you we can do something when I get off in thirty minutes. I definitely won't be getting off early, though. I don't have special privileges here like I do at practice."

John furrowed his brows, "I've been here with you for hours, and you're still wondering why?" Once again, John seemed oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had answered him and attacked him with another question.

Taking a moment of silence before responding, Sherlock looked around the store. There were still a few people mingling about. Two teenagers snickered at something in a magazine a few aisles away, while an old man was perusing the new selection of heat resistant spatulas. In the fruit section, a tired-eyed woman in sweatpants was touching every apple before putting it back. 

Sherlock was actually pretty happy with his accommodations here, in all honesty. The manager and his coworkers treated him like an employee rather than a prince, and he was ignored instead of praised. That being said, he still wasn't quite sure how the store managed to sell imported pineapples as well as multiple carpet samples, but he was happy occasionally restocking shelves anyway. It wasn't too bad, considering. He'd worked in baggage for the majority of his time, greeting the people, packaging their goods, ringing them up… It was a peaceful job, in ways, especially after a morning of stressful practice and a lonely afternoon.

Tonight wasn't peaceful, though. John was poking him and teasing him and grinning that devilishly handsome smile to distract him. His manager hadn't minded, if he'd noticed at all, and Sherlock had taken it upon himself to keep it that way. Every time John tried to serenade him with his favorite American bands as he scanned dried tomatoes, Sherlock would shoot him a warning glance.

It was all in good fun, though, and Sherlock was happy to have John beside him, even if he told him a number of times to stop flaunting his tight bum at him. 

While his mood increased, as had his sex drive, Sherlock's walls were suddenly high again. He assumed it was just his second-guessing kicking in, leftover from his last relationship.

John hadn't said anything to define it, actually, and God only knew Sherlock wouldn't. He wiped his cash register with an innocent thumb when he finally responded to John's question. He asked so many bloody questions. "Well, sort of." _Yes, John, I_ am _still wondering why you're here. I don't know why you'd want to spend four hours at the end of a check-out counter for me. Besides the fact that you probably want to fuck me after this._

He groaned and dropped his head as if Sherlock's answer wasn't good enough. "Christ, Sherlock, you're doing it again."

"I'm doing what again?"

"Questioning it."

"What's 'it?'"

As he spoke, John picked himself off the counter and stretched so his sweatshirt hem rose up and his taut hip bones peeked at Sherlock. It was nice to see John in street clothes, and Sherlock took no time in checking him out again, his jeans hugging his hips and thighs nicely. "Whatever this thing is, that we're doing." 

Sherlock turned away and busied himself with the register again nervously."When you put it that way, of course I question it." He felt navy eyes settle on the curl at the back of his neck.

"I didn't mean…" John trailed off.

Sherlock heard him swallow and shuffle his feet, and he suddenly realized that it wasn't that John didn't want to define their relationship, it was that he was just as nervous to try. Sherlock was now painfully aware that he must have seemed cold just now. He kept pushing John away as he worked and questioned the validity of their friendship in front of him. No wonder John was suddenly withdrawing into himself, what with Sherlock's actions. 

John's tense silence was a sign that he was about to say something, but he needed support to do so. Sherlock pulled his fingers away from the peeling tape and turned back to him, stepping in closer. He tucked his hands in to the pockets of his apron and looked at John's face. He was so handsome, so undeniably fantastic, and yet here he was, in a baggy grey sweatshirt and beautifully tight jeans, staring at the scuffed up linoleum under his sneakers because he couldn't find the words to say. 

Knowing that John was about to give a speech, no matter how many times he said he wasn't good at "that sort of stuff," Sherlock couldn't deny that in his own twisted way, he liked to see John struggle over it. It proved it meant something to him.

"You know you don't have to - " he started.

"I want to."

"Okay, sorry." 

John sighed and tried to smile, but it came out a sort of sorrowful smirk.

* * *

 _Shit, John, just talk._ "It's… sort of crazy that we've only known each other this long, but it's all been important to me. You always… Shit, Sherlock, you always wonder why I'd want to hang out with you, why I want to spend the entire weekend with you, why I've spent every second of the past week with you. You didn't even understand why I'd bother with Chris the other day! And it gets really, really annoying…" Sherlock winced and moved his gaze away, but John pushed on. He was tempted to take Sherlock's hands, but he decided against it. "But it's annoying because you can't see how much I like you. And I know why that is, with all the pressure from your parents, Mr. Pensy, and the team… but I would think that with me, especially me, you'd get it. And, no, don't say you do because you don't. You don't know why it's so nice to see you every day, even if you seem like you do. Even after everything we've done, you don't think I'd want to stay with you as you work. And it's not just the… y'know… but the other, stuff, too. Like going around town. I like it so much, and sometimes I wonder if you do." That was more than he'd expected to say, but John was proud of it nonetheless.

"I do!"

"So tell me you do, because I'm trying really hard to be the exception to your 'I hate the world' rule."

"I do, John, you are, it's just - you're right, I always wonder why you'd want to be with me…. because you're you and I'm me, and this is still just too good to be true." Sherlock's eyes couldn't stay still as he spoke.

Laughing the heaviness away, John attempted to make a joke of it. "I'm just that great of a shag, am I?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said solemnly.

"Oh." It was silent again after that. John felt ridiculous all of sudden. He felt like they were going in circles, as if they'd gone over these issues so many times. He just needed to change it, to assure Sherlock that he was serious.

"It's okay, John. Just - just let me ring up this woman…" The weird apple lady was approaching the counter with surprisingly zero apples, and John felt that he was running out of time.

He said it quickly, his heart racing. "Will you be my boyfriend, then?"

"Sorry?"

"I said will you - "

But Sherlock cut him off and plastered a saccharine grin on his face. "Hi, just this?"

The woman nodded and took out her purse as Sherlock scanned the wine, ice-cream, and Cat Fancy magazine. She handed over two tenners and looked between the the swimmers as if she knew she was interrupting something. After stuffing the bills into the register, Sherlock handed her back her change. She left, scratching her bum.

Checking the time on the clock in the corner of the store, Sherlock cleared his throat. "What were you saying?"

"I want to know if you'll be my… er, boyfriend… thingy." _Smooth._

Sherlock's pale cheekbones flushed with a creeping rosy taint, and his lips pursed in a small smile, "Yeah. I mean, Yes, John, I'd like that."

He cleared his throat. "Right. Okay. Good."

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I'm glad you asked."

* * *

John stayed with Sherlock until his shift ended like he'd promised. By the time Sherlock took off the green apron and left, he was in an even better mood than he'd been all week. He told himself not to rely on John to make him feel better about himself, that he should never put that much trust into someone, but John's little spiel had made things easier on his insecure personality, and he knew John's presence was beneficial. 

They walked hand in hand down the road to the bus stop, Sherlock undeniably happy about lacing his fingers through John's and strolling with him in the moonlight. They sat on the bench together and spoke of mindless things, mostly the people in the store. By the time the bus came, they'd almost run out of strange customers to judge.

"What was up with the carrot hoarder?" John said as they stepped up and into it. He used his pass and paid for Sherlock in coins as Sherlock tried to think of a witty answer. He seemed eager to bring Sherlock home with him, and Sherlock just smiled at the thought of John's messy room, which probably smelled like him. 

They moved through the aisles and ignored the snickering teenage girls in the reserved seats. They plopped down a few seats away and immediately resumed holding hands, hiding them between their thighs. "Don't know. Maybe she just wanted to be tan."

"Do you get tan from eating carrots?"

"You sort of get an orange glow if you eat too many," Sherlock responded. The bus began to move and he thought to himself how he'd had such a wonderful day. He'd left his bike at home, since John had texted him to meet somewhere within walking distance, so he was forced to stay beside him as they moseyed around town.

John squeezed his hand. "Maybe you should eat more carrots, then, Casper."

"Casper?"

"The friendly ghost? Did you not have a childhood, or something?"

"Coming from a farm boy, that means a lot."

"Fuck off."

"Later. I like it here too much." 

John smiled and kissed Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock accepted the kiss and looked at him fondly. He didn't want to look away from John's lovely face, but he knew he had to eventually. When he did, he caught their reflection in the dark bus window, and it only made him happier to see him there, beside John - beside his _boyfriend._

* * *

As he'd expected, John's house smelled like him. The man himself told Sherlock he'd give him the grand tour as he pushed through the front door, but Sherlock was preoccupied by the fact that he was in the place John existed in before he'd even met him. They made their way through the dark kitchen, and upon flicking the lights up, Sherlock immediately rushed to the refrigerator and pointed at John's baby pictures. John just shook his head, mumbled something about his farm's pumpkin patch on Halloween, and pulled Sherlock out of the small, quaint kitchen. Sherlock's eyes soaked up every corner of the house, its brown and and beige structure, every picture of John, each piece of clothing strewn about. He assumed this was the house that he stayed in with his sister, and he asked about it while John straightened out the living room.

"She's out with her girlfriend, I think."

Sherlock was tempted to turn to John, smile in his most dominant way, and say _So we have the house to ourselves? Whatever shall we do?_ before advancing on him and capturing his bitten lips in a caustic kiss. Actually, seeing as John was bending over to pick up an empty take-away carton, his jeans doing little to hide his round bum, Sherlock decided he might want to try. John was his boyfriend now, after all. 

"Hmmm… I see…" He moved close to John and stood still and solid. "John," he deepened his voice, placing his hands on his hips. John looked up and over his left shoulder as he raised himself. He tossed the carton into the nearest bin and wiped his hands on his trousers. His irritated expression at Harry's sloppiness turned soft and his pretty pink mouth fell open slightly. He seemed to understand what Sherlock was trying to do, and he tried stifling a smile.

Not knowing what to say next, Sherlock cleared his throat and furrowed his brows. John laughed at him. "Don't laugh at me," Sherlock said, although the liked sound of John's bubbling chuckle.

"I'm - I'm sorry. Sorry." He tried to compose himself, but he interrupted himself and failed as he walked towards a very stern-faced Sherlock. "Sorry."

Sighing, Sherlock confessed defeat. "It's alright, I don't know what I'm trying to do."

By the time John had crossed the room and met Sherlock, his hands were snaking around Sherlock's waist. Losing himself in the feeling of John pressed up against him, Sherlock closed his eyes and returned the embrace. He set his chin on John's head and documented each and every curve and ripple in the body under his arms. The blond head nestled in the crook of Sherlock's neck shifted and angled up towards him. He looked down at it, at the face that he'd fallen so helplessly for, and accepted its kiss. John's lips were soft and tender against his, and after a moment of reveling in the sweetness of it, John parted his lips and pressed on further.

His hands slid down Sherlock's back and settled them on his rear, but the touch turned less than innocent when John flicked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock clung helplessly to John's hips, but his sanity faltered with every grope and squeeze, even more so when John began walking them backwards.

Pulling Sherlock down on top of him, both men tumbled onto the maroon couch. Sherlock settled on top of John between his legs, still attached at the mouth. John smiled against Sherlock's lips and sneaked his hands from his tight bum under his baggy blue sweatshirt, his fingers trailing up the valley in his muscular back. 

Wasting no time, John pulled the sweatshirt over Sherlock's curly head and tossed it aside, his hands returning to Sherlock's bare alabaster skin. Sherlock let him round his cupped palms over his shoulders and arms before he moved his own hands away from John's thighs and tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt. John raised his arms as the soft, grey material left his chest, and smiled at Sherlock with eyes that held the galaxy once he cast it away. 

Unable to form coherent thoughts, Sherlock let his hands wander John's hot torso and captured his mouth once more. They kissed and kissed more, John rolling his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth with a twist of his head. In the mess of touching, kissing, and grabbing, both boys somehow managed to kick and fling their sneakers off.

Sherlock was unreserved this time. He wasn't worried about how John felt about him, and he wasn't worried that their homophobic coach would walk in. He was just here, with John, in the dark, on the couch, snogging him senseless. He covered every bit of John with his hands, feeling him squirm and push and quiver underneath him. His eager fingers only balked their wandering when John surprised him with sucking purple marks on his collarbone, causing him to groan and roll his naked chest into the swimmer beneath him.

Knowing John's body and reactions from the times they'd been together before, Sherlock rocked his own erection into his, teasing him and letting him grow heavy and solid in his tight trousers. John must have been impatient upon feeling Sherlock's bulge against his own, because he fumbled with the buttons on Sherlock's trousers and slipped his hands beneath his pants quickly.

Grasping John by the thighs and gyrating himself into his boyfriend's hand, Sherlock furrowed his brows and let out a plaintive moan. John responded by twisting his wrist and pulling Sherlock more firmly. Once the initial surprise of John's wonderful touch had passed, Sherlock was composed enough to sloppily unbuckle John's trousers and slip them lower on his hips. Unfortunately, John was struggling to get out of them, and he broke the sensual mood with a laugh to direct Sherlock to pull from the hem at the bottom.

He did so, slipping the tight jeans off John's shapely legs with playful yank. He stood himself up and shimmied out of his own trousers before returning to John's open arms and placing kisses along his neck and down his chest. They let their near-naked bodies align once more and ground together before the overwhelming desire to feel each other truly was unbearable. Sherlock inched his slender fingers under the hem of John's pants and touched him gently, stroking his cock with a nimble caress, but John was anxious and contorted himself under Sherlock as he shed his pants completely.

Sherlock smiled at that, his grin falling away to reveal his awestruck expression at John's naked body before him. He raised himself on his knees and admired the flush in his face, the sharp lines and shadows of his torso, the solidity of his shoulders, the deep tan of his smooth skin, the glorious curve of his calves, and finally the unforgettable sight of his thick, needy erection. He was so magnificent, and Sherlock tried to voice it with a grateful huff.

John just rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock back down on top of him, locking his legs around his hips. He ground into him like that until they were both panting and wanton and eager for more, at which Sherlock let his left hand find the supple muscle of John's rear. With his right, he brought one finger to his lips and suckled on it, trying not to laugh as he maintained eye contact with his boyfriend. As per usual, Sherlock failed, and he dipped his head in a laugh, his wet finger hanging onto the edge of his pink lip. He shook off the laughter and spit on it once more before weaving his hand between their bodies and resting it at John's arsecheek.

He noted the feeling of John's warm, bare skin under his wrist before he slipped his finger inwards and began tracing light circles over John's opening. He kissed John and slipped his finger inside as John hummed with satisfaction.

John's tight ring of muscle resisted at first, but soon Sherlock was able to work multiple fingers inside him, stretching him open with a scissoring motion. He plunged inside John, removing his fingers and adding more saliva until John was coated and wet and wide. He worked on him until John was breathless and flushed and jerking his chest up in pleasure, at which Sherlock removed his fingers and kissed John's swollen lips tenderly.

Sherlock moved the tented front of his pants to John's bum and ground into him through the thin fabric. John's hands slipped down Sherlock's back and grabbed his arse under his pants, a sign that he couldn't wait any longer. Noting John's needy groping with pride, Sherlock slipped his pants over his solid cock and stroked it a few times. He watched as John's innocent eyes dropped to it, flashing dark and mischievous as he pulled Sherlock's arse into his own groin. 

Nestled between John's spread legs, Sherlock spit once more on his fingers and guided the tip of his cock to John's expectant opening. He dropped his head into the crook of John's neck and breathed in his smell as he pushed on, John stretching and accepting him tightly. Every rippled inch inside John quivered around him as the man himself gasped, and Sherlock struggled to compose himself since the feeling of John's tight walls were enough to push him over the edge. Fortunately, he held out, taking a moment by kissing John's shoulder to control himself.

Now that Sherlock was sheathed inside John and composed enough to move, he raised himself to look at his partner, whose half-lidded eyes looked at him like he'd never seen something so wonderful. Enveloped in darkness, Sherlock slid his hands back to John's thighs and pulled them tighter around his waist. 

He rolled his body into John, pulling out of him and pushing back in as John's hands gripped his arse. Upon hearing John's small gasps and whimpers, the gentle drive soon became impatient and quick, and Sherlock caused John's body to rock beneath him and into the couch with his powerful movement.

* * *

John closed his eyes and recounted his luck as his incredibly attractive boyfriend fucked him, his wonderful contact as sizzling as it was calming. John let himself go, his head falling back into the arm of the couch while his body sparked from Sherlock's thrusts between his legs.

He coiled up more in pleasure once he heard Sherlock's content groans and sighs, felt his hot breath on his neck, realized he was massaging his thighs as he gripped them… 

The replacement breastroker pushed his body into Sherlock, and he pushed back; he nipped Sherlock's neck, and he mirrored the bite; he dug his nails into Sherlock's bum, and Sherlock squeezed his firm legs so hard it would leave bruises. It was glorious.

They danced like that, Sherlock seeming to let all of his fears and insecurities go for just a moment, while John let the waves of pleasure wash away his tense, hidden memories. Their bodies hummed and accepted and rolled as if they were meant to be pressed together, and John dug his hands deeper under Sherlock's pants in a helpless attempt of pulling him closer.

Sherlock and John were here, in John's house, in a dark living room with the yellow glow from the kitchen the only light he could see his partner by, rolling and grinding against each other, straining for more release, more fever. Their breathless voices trickled out of swollen lips and the couch squeaked with the weight, but the house was silent and innocent as John's head spun with Sherlock's wonderful sex.

It was nearly ten minutes before Sherlock lost his respectful control and began pounding into John selfishly, but John was eager to come and accepted his harsh thrusts welcomingly. He came before Sherlock, his legs tightening and locking while his stomach dropped and all of his strenuously used muscles clenched. Evidence of his orgasm flecked across his stomach, but he couldn't breathe calmly just yet because Sherlock was still inside him and pushing through his own. 

He plunged deep and locked, coming inside of John with a shudder. Sherlock paused and remained still until the last of his energy disappeared, and he sagged forward onto John heavily. 

Their moans and grunts had turned into quiet, satisfied breaths as their post-coital bliss surrounded them, and John was sure Sherlock would have slept like that, connected to him, if he hadn't shaken him awake.

"Sherlock," he whispered. 

The boy groaned.

"We need to move to my room in case Harry comes home."

Sherlock groaned again but picked himself up and slid out of John. With a sloppy grin and half-closed eyes, he tucked himself back into his pants and left John naked on the couch as he wandered mindlessly through the dark house. John closed his sore legs and rolled his neck. He heard Sherlock clumsily open a door, and by the sound of a mildly confused squeak, it wasn't the right one.

"That's the bathroom, Sherlock, mine's the one on the right." 

John stared at the ceiling and tucked his arms behind his head until he heard a more familiar door open, shuffling feet, and the noise of a tired young man flopping onto a messy bed. He smiled to himself and sighed, his chest tight from the previous panting.

 _God bless that fucking idiot,_ he thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That satiate your top!lock thirst enough, guys?!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's house was too big for him to feel like a normal kid and too empty to try and fix that with social events.

A week later, Sherlock and John had developed a routine in keeping their relationship a secret. They talked to each other as much as two heterosexual friends would at practice, even to the extent of feigning intense competition in the water. Of course, once practice ended, either one of them received a proper fucking. They strolled around town or hung around John's house before Sherlock had to go to work, and while the "goodbye until tomorrow" was painful, Sherlock had received too many questions from his parents on his whereabouts the night he spent at John's to risk it again. He came home, happy as a clam, always making up some excuse about a new record or more praise from Mr. Pensy.

It'd been two weeks since they'd met, and John and Sherlock worked so well together that John mentioned he ought to meet Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock immediately shot the idea down, but John persuaded him as they lounged around the empty pool after practice, hair still damp.

"You don't have to tell them we're boyfriends, just tell them you want to bring a friend over. Tell them I help you swim. Tell them I'm beneficial. Tell them - "

"That you win best rimjob award?"

John laughed, his head falling back into Sherlock's lap. "Okay, maybe not that. C'mon, I want to meet the famous Holmeses. And they'll want to meet me."

"Don't flatter yourself. They don't even know you exist."

"You shit! My sister knows all about you."

"Yes, but I did eat all of her Lucky Charms, so she had no choice to meet me when she swore to hunt me down."

John raised his arms and wound them around Sherlock's neck. "True. Get down here." But John abided the restrictions of human anatomy and pulled himself up and out of Sherlock's lap instead. Once face-to-face, he kissed him and kissed him again, pleading. "Please, I want to be a part of your life."

Sherlock tugged on John's bottom lip with his teeth before responding, "You are."

"You know what I mean, your life outside swim."

"Meeting my parents will be the opposite of that. They have chlorine in their veins. _You're_ my life outside swim."

John smiled and nipped at Sherlock's cheeks, "See? I don't have to flatter myself. You do it for me."

Sherlock looked defeated, but his eyes were bright and lovely when he met John's. "You're not going to let me get out of this, are you?"

"Nope."

"Fine, I can take you home tonight. But I'm telling you, this won't be some cute Friday night dinner. It might get bad."

"I can handle it." John tightened his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him again.

* * *

Sherlock watched John nervously as he looked around the foyer. He'd called his mother shortly after their conversation and told her that'd he'd be having a teammate over, and while she questioned it, Sherlock assured her that he'd been helping him with his flutter kick. She'd obliged and told them to head over after work for an extremely late (most likely, extremely extravagant) dinner. 

He'd taken John to work with him and tried his best to prepare him. He was unsure how they'd react if they found out that he cared more about snogging John than swimming faster, but knowing how they felt about his last boyfriend, he was definitely worried. John failed to stifle his gasp when they'd parked their bikes in front of the beautiful house.

Sherlock's house was too big for him to feel like a normal kid and too empty to try and fix that with social events. The staircase that lead to the upstairs rooms wound in two directions and met underneath a chandelier, its intricate wooden bannister glistening with fresh polish. The various empty vases and snobby paintings made Sherlock cringe as John looked about; the last thing he needed was to look even more pretentious.

However, John just looked at Sherlock with a smile and took his hand. "It's alright, I guess," he joked.

"Right. Now all there's left to do is - "

"Sherlock!" 

They immediately dropped hands. "Mum."

Mrs. Holmes was wrapped in a delicate purple dress, her hair up in a spiral bun. Sherlock noticed that she dabbed pink powder on her lids and cheeks, and he was put off by it. She usually roamed the halls in a robe and lazy slippers. Now, her outfit sparkled in the low lighting of the house as she reached for John's hand. Sherlock noticed how John's eyes darted from Mrs. Holmes's greying bangs and Sherlock's dark curls, but he took her hand and smiled fondly. "Mrs. Holmes."

"What's your name, dearie?"

"John. Er, Watson. I'm on Sherlock's swim team."

"So he said. You look like a swimmer. Good shoulders."

"Mum…" Sherlock gave John an apologetic look, but his boyfriend just smiled back, seemingly excited to be in such a grand place. 

"Dinner's just been set, let's meet Sherlock's father."

 _Let's not…_ Instead of voicing his grievances, however, Sherlock just followed as his mother walked John through the hallways. She swayed her hips. It was embarrassing.

"How do you like our home, John?"

"It's very beautiful, Mrs. Holmes. Much nicer than my place."

"Oh, is that so?"

_John, don't._

"Yeah. I mean, yes. I live with my sister. We're not, well…"

Luckily, John's confession of his family's lack of wealth in comparison to Sherlock's was stymied by the appearance of Sherlock's father. He was standing in the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't dressed up as much as Sherlock's mother was, but his expression reeked class just as well. 

The dining room was adorned with crystal and more vases, the long table decked with dishes of food and glasses of wine. Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. They never even used the dining room anymore. He just ate breakfast in the kitchen, and they almost never had sit down dinners, considering Sherlock came home after nine every night.

Mr. Holmes took John's hand, his stern brow juxtaposing John's timid curiosity. John smiled politely, but it was met with acurt nod.

John looked so out of place with his sweatshirt and faded Jeans. He looked like he was from a different world. Sherlock was grateful for that, actually.

"What's your name, son?"

"This is John. He helps Sherlock with his flutter kick." Mrs. Holmes replied to her husband as she hustled both John and Sherlock onto opposite sides of the long table. She took her place at one end, while Mr. Holmes took the other. John made eye contact with Sherlock and looked as though he were expecting a servant to serve him salad. Sherlock didn't blame him. He was still wondering why his parents hadn't hired any. No, this dinner was completely cooked and set by his mother, who seemed genuinely excited for a reason to act like a fifties' housewife. 

Sherlock's father took no time in questioning John as he lay a silk napkin in his lap. "So, John, how do you like swimming with the Eels?"

"It's… It's hard work sometimes. I like it, though. I'm still in disbelief that we only have a couple of weeks left before regionals."

Mr. Holmes reached forward and began cutting himself a piece of meat as John spoke, and he nodded as if he were listening. Sherlock knew he wasn't. 

John looked back to Mrs. Holmes, who cleared her throat. "We can eat, I suppose. John, dear, go ahead and take whatever you like." She began spooning raviolis and salad onto her plate. Sherlock had no appetite.

"Thank you, it looks delicious." John seemed unsure what to take, so Sherlock showed him by ladling a few spoonfuls of hot soup into his bowl. John did the same. He was embarrassed at the amount of food, especially since when he and John were hungry while at John's house, they had trouble finding something substantial or fresh in the cupboard.

"Don't know why we're eating at nine thirty…" Mr. Holmes mumbled.

"Charles, be polite. John, where did you go to school?"

"Clemens. I didn't grow up in the city, I just moved down here recently."

Sherlock sipped his soup. It was too hot, but he'd rather burn his tongue than speak. John had mentioned that he and his parents didn't have enough money to send him to university, and he was sure that his mother meant something of that nature. She continued with the questions. "Where did you live before?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"I worked on a farm with my dad. I went to school up there, too. It's nice down here, though. Have you lived here all Sherlock's life?"

John was making pleasant conversation, and while the majority of Sherlock's heart called to him for being so respectful, a dubious shard was just waiting for things to get out of hand. Mr. Holmes spoke this time. "Yes."

"Oh…"

It was silent. Sherlock watched from under his lashes at John, who was sipping his soup and seemed to wonder if he were allowed to take a roll from the basket in front of him. Sherlock wanted it to be over, but he also wanted his parents to approve of John. This might be the only opportunity he'd have to make up for his last boyfriend, who had one interaction in total with Sherlock's parents, and that was late at night during a booty call.

"John is a fantastic swimmer," Sherlock said.

"Not better than you, I trust," Mr. Holmes responded, mouth full of steak.

Sherlock didn't feel like fighting, seeing how he usually didn't respond, but there was a twinge of nonchalance in his father's voice that he just couldn't let pass. Not when he was trying to speak highly of John. Not when he had so much to stand up for now. "Does everything have to be a competition?"

"Yes, when it comes to swimming."

"Right, and what part of my life _isn't_ swimming?" Sherlock hoped his opposition wouldn't cause an entirely huge scene in front of John, and he didn't want to hear what his dad had to say, but it was out already. Sherlock knew John felt awkward by the way he swirled his soup innocently, and he cursed himself for causing it.

"It's important to this family that you do well." His father's eyes were cold and sharp, his upper lip threatening to turn up in a sneer. His mother was pushing raviolis around on her plate.

"No, it's important to _you_."

"Sherlock, don't sass me."

"I'm not, I just want to know why it's so important that I swim all the time. It wasn't for Mycroft."

"Mycroft has a weak heart. You're healthy, so you can carry on the legacy."

 _There it is - "the legacy." I told you it was ridiculous how much they mention it, John._ "From a dirty community pool? Why not send me off to university where I can be respected and swim there?"

"Respect has nothing to do with it. Mr. Pensy is as prestigious as any coach at any university, so one more year won't hurt."

"One more year, and a year after that, and a year after that? Dad, I have to get out of Bristol at some point."

"And what are you going to do? You don't do anything as it is, how will you fill your days?"

"I don't do anything? I swim for four hours and work for five!"

"Don't yell at me."

"I'm not yelling, I'm just telling you that I'm not the piece of shit you think I am."

Mrs. Holmes cut in, "Sherlock!"

"Victoria, stay out of this." Mr. Holmes had dropped his fork to his plate and was now leaning on the table with his elbows, glaring at Sherlock with an I-know-better-than-you look. "Sherlock, you wouldn't be able to take care of yourself if you stopped swimming."

"How do you know?"

"Because you've relied on us up until now like a needy child."

"No, no I haven't. I would be fine without you, it's the two of _you_ who need _me!"_

"Where is all this even coming from? Is it your friend's influence?" He gestured to John, who was watching with a terrified expression.

"What if it is? What if someone finally showed me that it's okay not to follow in their parents' footsteps? John's helped me see that. He's helped me see a lot of things."

"Oh, for God's sakes, don't tell me you're _dating_ or something."

"Dad, I'm almost twenty years old. I need to be able to make my own decisions, including dating whomever I want."

"No, you're supposed to act like a good son and not disrespect your father. You know how I feel about you dating during the season, a _teammate_ no less. Mr. Pensy will kick you off the team for sure."

Sherlock felt tears stinging his eyes, but he pressed on, "Good! I want him to! I don't want to swim! I did, but I don't anymore. I want to learn and travel!"

"You speak to me as if there's a chance you'd throw away everything we've given you. All that we've worked for, all the times we've made life so much easier for you."

"You're kidding me. Made life easier for me? You denied me the right to make friends when I was eight because I was just starting to get better than the other kids. I've never had a birthday party that wasn't in the pool, not that anyone came. You told me science was useless. You never let me join any clubs outside of school. You treat me like I'm worthless. You keep me here and deny me basic adult rights!"

Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes in the way that made Sherlock want to lunge across the table and rip them out. "'Basic adult rights,' you're acting like a child."

"I want to talk about this." _Even if John's here. He gives me strength._

"There's nothing to talk about. Now stop screeching and eat your dinner."

"Just tell me why, dad, why I'm such a big disappointment. I do everything right, I win all the competitions, and still Mycroft is better than me to you. I work just as hard as him."

"Don't compare yourself to your brother, you live in two different worlds."

"Exactly! That's not how it should be! We should have something in common!"

"Sherlock, stop it."

"Tell me why, dad. Tell me why I can't move out of the city and make something of my life. Tell me why it's such a struggle for you to have a peaceful dinner when my boyfriend's here. Tell me why I can't do anything right to you."

Mr. Holmes slammed his fist on the table. Mrs. Holmes jumped. John dropped his eyes. Sherlock's tears finally fell. "Because you're not good enough, Sherlock! You have to be better! You have to swim! You _need_ to be the best! If you don't make it all the way my entire career will be seen as a joke!"

Sherlock stood from the table, his thighs hitting painfully as he did so. "Your career is _over!_ Stop forcing it on me, for God's sakes!" 

He left after that, storming through the hallway and out the front door. His face was hot and he wanted to scratch his skin off, his father's snarky eyes sinking into his gut like a blade. He tugged at his hair and walked through the dark, around the house, and into a clearing beside it. The hidden area and isolation from the buzzing city comforted him as did the night, but everything was red and itchy just the same.

John must have followed him, because he felt hands wind around his waist from behind. Without even checking, he turned around and hugged John back, grimacing through his tears. He wiped them over John's shoulder before he pulled back and looked at him. He was utterly horrified.

* * *

Sherlock's open expression revealed his every stress, how his father's treatment of him must have been happening all his life, how his mother's idol bystanding hurt just as much, how he truly loved swimming at some point, and how he now hates it. He was crumbling before John, his eyes so full of disappointment in himself that John knew he couldn't kiss it away.

He tried, though, oh did he try. He kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his brows. He stroked Sherlock's arms and neck and shoulders. He pulled Sherlock down into the damp grass and lay with him. 

They stared up at the stars as they tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock's mother might come after them.

"You alright?" John asked stupidly. 

"I might be… I'm sorry you had to see that… I usually don't protest."

"It was fine. I'm just worried about you. He was unrelenting."

"Usually it's more backhanded than that, but he basically just confirmed everything I already assumed. I was waiting for him to say 'I wish you'd never been born,' in all honesty."

John laced his fingers through Sherlock's as he shifted his head onto John's shoulder. They were cold and wet, but the simplicity of the house-side garden, complete with blossoming trees, was enough for them, and John watched the moon shine like fresh snow on the surface of a dark lake. "You don't believe him, do you?"

"That I'm shit?"

"Yeah."

"Most of the time, yes. His disappointment in me has driven me insane all these years, even though I know part of him is just an arsehole."

"That's exactly right. He's an arsehole who's holding onto a dream that's long gone, and he's forcing it onto his compassionate, wonderful son and stresses him out."

"So what do I do?"

"If it were up to me, I'd say quit and run away with me to Ireland, but I know that part your dad's disappointment has been driven into you so much that you need to make it to regionals. So, finish up this year and tell them to fuck off afterwards. That way you can end by completing it, and they technically can't complain during the off-season."

Sherlock pushed his face in to kiss John's ear. "How are you so smart?"

"I'm not, I just want you to be happy. I want you to have all that you've told me you want. Especially the things you mumble when you're napping in my bed."

He laughed, the sound of his own happiness replacing his previous sighs of defeat. "What do I say?"

"Something about dogs and pasta."

"Oh, yes. I want to have this house where I have lots of dogs who wander all over the kitchen as I'm cooking, and when I drop pasta they all snuffle over and eat it up before I can even glance down. I want them to curl up beside the fire with me and whoever else lives with me, and I want to watch trash telly and eat the pasta by the fireplace."

"That's… Strangely specific. I love it." _And you. I love you, Sherlock._

"Thank you, it's been ten years in the making. What about you? What dream do you see?"

"Something like that. Maybe cats instead of dogs, though. And I'd be a successful doctor. Oh, and I wouldn't have any of those vases in my house unless they had lilacs in them."

"Just lilacs?"

"Just lilacs."

Sherlock was tracing light circles on John's chest as he said, "John?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

John took a moment before he turned his face and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "If it's any consolation, I could settle for dogs."

"I'm sure you could."

And John was happy, and relatively sure that at least for a moment, Sherlock was as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parental abuse is :( but house-side gardens you can lie with your man in are :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was worried, and with good reason.

Mr. Pensy paced in front of the pool, the grey morning haze behind him dripping down and fading at the glassy surface of the water. 

"Boys," he said. He never liked to call them men, John noticed.

Actually, he'd noticed quite a bit in the time he'd spent at practice. He noticed how Mr. Pensy swore the better mood he was in, how the other boys on the team looked at Sherlock with disdain whenever he was praised, and how the tiles on the bottom of the pool looked more and more dizzying as he strained to beat his record time. 

The coach continued, his dark sweatshirt crumpling as he folded his arms. "I don't know what to say to you. Some of you have been pushing yourselves harder than ever," his eyes darted to Sherlock, who just modestly nodded from his position beside John, "while others of you have disappointed me.

"I'm not going to give you a play-by-play of what you need to do to be better; I'd hoped some of you are smarter than that. Oh, now that I think about it, some of you showed up to practice smelling like cheap liquor, so I guess that last bit's not quite true. Don't make me warn you again. That's really all I have to say about that.

Now, as some of you know already, today I'm going to get a lump on my oblique looked at. That means I'll be away for about an hour towards the end of practice. This is of extreme importance: although I can't _legally_ let you swim without me here, I can't put off this appointment any longer. It's also in my best interest to have you boys take this independence as a test. Hopefully none of you will murder each other or suck each other off while I'm gone, but if that is the case, I've elected Sherlock to end practice early if he needs to. He has keys to the pool on him, so don't play dumb and beg him to let you all out. You need the practice. Especially you, Martin."

A round-faced boy who never spoke much pouted and dropped his head. John knew almost everyone on the team at this point, even if there were still some secrets he hadn't discovered yet. He was sure Sherlock knew them all, and he'd pry some out of him at times, eager and excited to hear what juicy tidbits Sherlock had deduced. 

John looked at Sherlock now, just for a moment, and wondered how the pale boy with messy curls had become so vital to his existence within a number of weeks. How Sherlock made him laugh until his sore abs nearly split, how he could solve math problems in the blink of an eye, how he gave John great head, how he looked as he napped… John wondered, but he didn't necessarily want the answer. He was lucky to have found Sherlock, and the more time he spent with him, he realized that Sherlock was just as lucky to have him.

Mr. Pensy rubbed his eyebrows and groaned, snapping John from his conscious adoration. "Alright? Get to work." He waved his hand toward the pool and the energy of the young swimmers roused from calm and still to commanded and robotic as they all migrated towards the water.

Sherlock snapped his goggles and cap on before he reached for John's hand to stand, and with a wince, the lean boy rose to his feet. "Sherlock," John asked. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, John. Just a bit tired." Sherlock acted aloof and dropped John's hand, but he leaned in closely and whispered, "Last night took a lot out of me, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, Sherlock. Not that you didn't leave me sore, too, or anything." John felt his cheeks tighten as he smiled, the other boys dropping into the pool like dead weights.

John's boyfriend turned his worrisome eyes towards the group of half-naked young men as they converged into bundles of floating heads. "Shhh…"

"I'm not afraid."

"I am."

Before he could retort, however, the only other teammate who had not yet leapt into the pool, Arthur Alexander, approached John. "Hey, Watson," he said. 

He couldn't help but drop his eyes to Arthur's tight chest and slender hips, though he wasn't as magnificent as Sherlock. Nobody was, really. "Arthur."

"A few of us are going to the pub tonight, and we want to know if you'll come along. We've wanted to invite you for a while, but it never seemed like the time to." He twiddled his thumbs nervously.

 _And now's the time? Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?_ "Thanks, mate, but Sherlock and I were going to do something tonight, I think. Besides, coach wouldn't want us getting pissed, would he?"

"Pffft, what does the coach know? We've done it every few nights for a while now. It's fine. Not like a bad practice is the end of the world."

"It is for some people," Sherlock interjected solemnly.

Arthur continued, visibly uncomfortable. "Right. Anyway, that's fine if you're busy. Just wondering…"

"Thanks for the offer, though! If it weren't movie night, I'd accept."

Something in John's response registered in Arthur's hazel eyes, and he pursed his lips. He darted his gaze between John and Sherlock. "So… Are you guys like a thing, or something?"

"We're just friends." Sherlock said quickly.

"Good friends." John added. 

Skeptical, Arthur seemed to believe the half-truth. "I didn't think you had friends, Sherlock?"

"I don't. I've just got one." 

John's heart swelled upon hearing that from Sherlock, his deep indistinguishable voice dripping with sentiment.

"Well, okay then. See you 'round, boys." He walked towards the pool and jumped in the deep end, immediately speaking to a dark-skinned boy who was staring rather intensely at Sherlock.

John shook the encounter off. He knew they couldn't be out, especially because of the rule, but he was sure half the team knew by now. John hoped their sexual electricity wasn't as obvious to them as it was to him, even though he'd rather they just come out and say it. It'd taken him so long to be out himself, but now that Sherlock was with him, he felt stronger. He felt like his parents and friends would understand better once they saw how beautiful and intelligent he is. _Who can resist those bloody lips!?_ he thought.

But the lips that were often on John's neck and chest were hidden in a frown now. John nudged him as they subconsciously began walking toward the pool. Sherlock didn't look at him.

The young men bent down and slipped in, the water enveloping them and soothing John's various aches and pains. He glanced at Sherlock's shoulders and head above the cerulean surface beside him before dunking. He popped back up and ran fingers through over his swim cap as he looked for Sherlock, who was deep underwater.

* * *

Sherlock sunk to the bottom of the pool and pulled his knees in. He wanted to sit like that for as long as his trained lungs would let him, peering at the kicking legs of his team through the shimmering cerulean water. He needed this moment, just this moment, to think. He needed to recollect his thoughts after the encounter with Arthur, and he needed to stew on what he'd said. He had just one friend. Just John Watson. Friend, meaning John. The only person truly worthy of that title. He thought back to the argument he'd had with his father, how he must have been so confused as to why Sherlock would bring a friend home. He never had before. Sherlock pulled his knees tighter into his chest and dug his head into his the sharp bone of his joint. He could feel his muscles go numb as he breath tried to escape, and the memory of his mother's disappointed eyes cut into him. He closed his eyes beneath his goggles and furrowed his brows, pretending to take a deep breath in hopes of keeping him down longer. He knew that Mr. Pensy would soon start the clock, but he didn't care. He needed the silence of the water, the tightness of his grip on his legs, the isolation from the team. His brain clicked back to the out-of-place conversation just minutes previous. It'd struck a wrong chord with him, and he was sure it was more than just possession over John. As much as he appreciated John passing up Arthur's offer, something in it felt off, and Sherlock wondered if he was a burden. Like he was an anchor to John, limiting him from succeeded. What was worse, was that he wasn't even a shiny new anchor. He was rusty and peeling and infected with barnacles. Of course, John couldn't see this, since he just swam happily in first few feet of the water. Tired of the metaphor, Sherlock shook his head and pressed his lips together harder. He held his breath longer, ignoring the scream inside him, the chlorine-infused water enveloping him like a soft cocoon. The serenity was treasonous, however, because the water would soon turn harsh as he forced himself through it. He waited a few more seconds, his chest and lungs rejecting the lack of oxygen. His head dizzy, his ribs felt crushed by weight now, and he kicked off the bottom of the pool and pushed upwards, feeling the air on his cheeks as he split the surface, breathing sharply. When his breath returned to normal and his lungs thanked him, he grimaced and cracked his neck. He shook his pained head and found his boyfriend's face. John was worried, and with good reason.

 "Sherlock?" John asked.

"John…"

He came close, but not as close as Sherlock wanted him to be. He prayed Mr. Pensy didn't screech a command at them within the next few seconds, although the possibility was high. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I…" _I don't know._

"Ladies!" Mr. Pensy shouted, "More swimming, less chatting! Sherlock, John, I know you're two peas in a pod nowadays, but save it for the vegetable aisle! Now is time to practice!"

"Tell me after." John smiled at him like he was tempted to kiss him, and it pained Sherlock more with the realization that he couldn't. John's lips were just what he needed, but John dunked and swam to the other end instead, leaving Sherlock to begin his own lap.

Taking a moment to tell himself that this deep-set sadness was pointless, he slipped beneath the surface and kicked off. He began swimming, and it wasn't long until he pushed himself hard enough to strain. His shoulder sparked with a sharp pain as he pulled the water towards him with a cupped palm. His elbows clicked at the joints as he swam, his movements incredibly fast yet blindingly painful. His lungs burned when he breached the surface for air, so he held his breath longer and longer each time, a tight weight pressing down on his chest. His calves were tight and stiff, and Sherlock's thighs throbbed as he forced their numb muscle to work. His neck was sore and uncrackable as he turned his head, while his face stayed desensitized to the rushing water and the uncomfortable tightness of his goggles. 

He pushed on, every bit of his body rejecting the exercise. Mr. Pensy had been prouder still with each half-second shed off his time, but there was only so far that he could push, and after weeks of ignoring his weakening body, he seemed to be reaching the limit. 

John didn't know of his physical drainage, at least not yet. As Sherlock swam, the tiles at the bottom of the pool blurring through blue plastic, he realized that his act couldn't last forever. It was astonishing how he'd been able to keep it from John this long: his peeling feet, his sore muscles, his tired eyes. He just smiled at him, kissed him, touched him, loved him in every way that he could and did, even though he was dying slowly.

He touched the cement with numb fingers and tucked under, barely missing the bottom of the pool with his head before kicking off the side and cutting through the water. There was only one solution to his problem, and Sherlock knew that it wasn't an option. Not for him, not for his parents, and not even for John. He had to finish out the season. He couldn't stop or rest, not now.

Sherlock swam and swam some more. He was fast, incredibly fast, and as he lapped himself once again, he realized that his goggles were filling with tears. He blinked through them, unable to see anything, and pushed on. 

It wasn't that he needed to be quicker, or sharper, or even better - it was that he couldn't _stop._ He couldn't stop swimming, no matter how sore his arms were. He couldn't stop practicing his breaths or his style, no matter how much the water damaged his skin.

He tried to think conscious thoughts, of John, of their experiences: clear, colorful scenes of them happy, but he couldn't form sentences, let alone memories. His mind didn't wander and swirl like it had previously, now it was just dull and empty. It was extremely upsetting, this incapability of thought, and he dwelled on it as he swam.

At this point, Sherlock was swimming mindlessly. He could feel that he'd swam enough to satisfy Mr. Pensy, and he was sure he would keep going if not for the two, strong hands that grasped his ankles after a tumble turn and restrained him. Writhing to get to the surface and breathe, Sherlock coughed and cringed, his body on fire from the swim. The hands released him, and he tread water as his mind tried to find reality.

Dizzy, he snapped the goggles from his head and let the collected tears run down his face. He kicked his legs like egg beaters and turned, facing the hands' owner. His eyes focused as the sun streamed into them, and the shape of John Watson came into view.

"John?" he said, legs still struggling to keep him floating in the deep end.

"Sherlock! What in bloody hell are you doing? You've been swimming for ages!" The voice cut through Sherlock's ringing ears and struck his moral chord. Suddenly he was extremely ashamed for having not told John about his creeping inability.

Swallowing his tight throat, Sherlock lightly swam to the edge of the pool and grimaced through the pain as he pulled himself up and onto the warm cement. John must have followed, because soon his familiar face appeared beside him and met him at eye-level as he raised himself and sat at the edge.

"How long was I swimming?" Sherlock asked stupidly.

"Too long - Mr. Pensy's just left for his appointment. He directed us to finish our own laps before calling you out, apparently you were too 'in the zone' to be bothered. But you'd been swimming far too long, even for someone as good as you!"

John looked extremely concerned. He looked _concerned._ It caught Sherlock off guard every time John looked like that, especially because his eyes were brimming with emotion. They were wide and blue and scared, genuinely scared. It hurt to see, in all honesty.

Despite this, Sherlock found thatupon looking at John, his mind was mellowed and he could somewhat hear his own voice again. He spoke to John as best he could, although no sound came out. _John, did I scare you?_

"I'm sorry. I didn't know…" Sherlock trailed off as his eyes began scanning the rest of the pool area. The rest of the team were relaxed on various levels around the place: in the water, on the ledge, by the benches. What was worse was that they were all staring at Sherlock - some faces laden with worry and confusion, others with complete hate and disrespect.

"Jesus, Sherlock. What happens when you swim like that? Do you just not sense time?"

"John, please don't yell at me… My head…" _My head hurts. It hurts so much, John. And my legs and arms. My chest feels like it's being sat on by an elephant. I'm drenched but my throat is dry. I'm falling apart John, I'm completely falling apart, so please, please, please - don't yell at me._

"God, Sherlock… No, I didn't mean to - I'm not yell - I'm sorry. Come here." He moved closer to Sherlock and turned his body into him.

"But they'll - "

"I don't care." 

John hugged him. He hugged him with solid, wet arms and hot breath on Sherlock's neck. He hugged him so tightly that Sherlock could feel his concern and confusion come through his damp skin. For a moment, Sherlock's physical exhaustion melted under John's touch, and he wished he could stay in his arms for longer than he had. Unluckily, John had to pull back eventually, no matter if the coach was gone or not.

"I'm alright." Sherlock whispered, the elephant on his chest now more the size of a sheep.

"Good. Come on, you need rest."

 _That's the last thing I need,_ Sherlock argued, but he stood on trembling legs anyway and let John help him up. His fingers lingered in the crook of John's arm once standing, as did their gaze, but it was broken by a strange clapping noise.

Hollow and rhythmic, it didn't stop until John and Sherlock found the source of it. One of the boys on the other end of the pool's edge stilled his hands and dropped menacingly into the water. It was silent as Sherlock and John released each other in the relatively short time it took for the boy to swim to them. 

He raised himself with strong arms onto the cement, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he should help him up or not. By the gleam in his eye, he didn't think he should. 

Standing in front of them now, the shorter, chestnut-skinned boy dropped his vapid eyes to Sherlock's toes and back up to his face before speaking. "Sorry for the dramatic show, with the clapping, I don't usually do that. It was just so touching seeing you two finally hug it out after all these weeks."

* * *

"…Victor?"

Victor Trevor had been with the Eastern Eels for as long as Sherlock had, and while he wasn't a particularly fantastic swimmer, he never spoke out of term. Well, he never really spoke at all, Sherlock realized. 

He'd been accused of false starting on many occasions, mostly during relays. The other boys on the team didn't seem to mind as much as Mr. Pensy, although they'd always hit him on the back of the head when he was called out. 

Having him stand now, so close to Sherlock, speaking to him, was entirely out of character. He was quiet, unnoticed, almost a shadow on the surface of the pool - and here he was, lecherously staring Sherlock down and speaking to him like he had some sort of ransom on him. 

Sherlock glanced to John, who looked just as confused. The boy spoke again, his pouty lips pursing as a chilling and unfriendly voice trickled out of them. "Yes, that's my name."

"I don't understand," John said.

"I didn't expect you to." Victor snapped his swim cap from his head and raked snake-like fingers through his shaggy black hair. For some reason, Sherlock was completely terrified by this new encounter. Usually the boys avoided him, especially the quiet ones, and something about it was just so _sinister._ He hoped Victor would prove him wrong.

"Why are you talking to me?" Sherlock said, eager to get out of the situation.

"Because now that coachy is gone, I can finally speak to you. I could have just seduced you with red swim trunks, like _that one_ did, but after a few years you sort of give up on trying to win someone over."

John curled his fingers around Sherlock's wrist protectively, "Is this conversation going somewhere in particular, or can I get my friend a towel?"

"Oh, you can, this just concerns him. No, no hold on. That sounds lame. It's all wrong." Victor crossed his arms and furrowed his brows.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock tried again.

"Are you threatening us?" John asked.

"No, of course not, I'm just coming over to say hello and finally introduce myself." He reached for Sherlock's hand and took it. His fingers were cold and strangely slimy.

"I know who you are, Victor." 

"Do you, Sherl? Do you really?"

John tugged at Sherlock's wrist, "Come on."

"No, wait." Victor unlaced Sherlock's fingers and stepped back, feigning innocence. "I know I sound all creepy, but I'm really not trying to be. I just couldn't help but finally say something once my suspicions were confirmed."

_Oh, no._

"What suspicions?" John asked, although Sherlock was sure he knew exactly what he'd meant.

"You two. Your companionship. Inseparable. Two new best swimmers. Well, sort of. I just sort of guessed you guys were always dating."

Sherlock pleaded. The other boys had moved in closer and were now watching as if it were a soap opera. They had reason to, he supposed, considering the coach was gone. Sherlock just hoped his absence didn't leave the team to recreate _Lord of the Flies._ "Victor, don't."

Now John was the one to step forward. "And if we were?"

"I wouldn't tell. I'd just go home and cry a bit."

"What, why?" Sherlock said. He felt clueless and helpless as John and Victor glared at each other, but John's hand was still gripped around his wrist, so he was partially reassured.

"For someone fantastically brilliant, you really can be dull. I can't believe after two years, you haven't caught on. …I _like_ you, Sherlock."

"That is ridiculously fucking forward of you, not to mention incredibly out of place. Are you even real?" John tightened his grip, his blunt nails digging half-moons into Sherlock's pale skin.

Surprised and lacking the motivation to deal with it all, Sherlock just shook his head. "Why do you tell me now?" _Not that I care. Or believe you._

"I already answered that, Sherlock, Mr. Pensy's out and your little hug sparked my interest. Forgive me if that was unclear. Oh, and John, I am real. And I really truly believe you don't deserve him."

"What?!" John almost lunged at him, but Sherlock snapped his wrist out of John's grip and mirrored the action on his instead.

"You're a measly swimmer, and he's great. You don't fit together." Victor stepped in closer, seemingly unafraid of John's rising temper.

"Oh, and you're the judge of that, are you?" Sherlock's boyfriend spat.

"Yes. It's simple. You're shit, he's the best. And who wouldn't want the best?"

* * *

John snapped this time, tugging himself out of Sherlock's grip and lunging at Victor with clawed hands. He got one good hit to Victor's chest and a sharp swipe at his face, his fist colliding with solid muscle, his nails scratching Victor's cheek, before Sherlock and another set of hands restrained him by the biceps.

John snapped this time, tugging himself out of Sherlock's grip and lunging at Victor with clawed hands. He got one good hit to Victor's chest and a sharp swipe at his face, his fist colliding with solid muscle, his nails scratching Victor's cheek, before Sherlock and another set of hands restrained him by the biceps.

Victor stepped back and folded his arms behind him. John's vision was clouded by red, his teeth bared and his jaw clenched tight. He wanted to rip the bastard's head off, or at least scream at him that Sherlock might not deserve him, but he definitely doesn't deserve the shit he gets dealt daily.

John was squirming against the grip that held him helplessly, curses flooding into his head. _How DARE you? You think Sherlock's "the best," and you want him because of it? No, sorry, no. That's not all he is. That's not all he bloody is!_

Hopeless, John resisted the urge to hit him again and relaxed against his restraints. Victor, for a moment, looked regretful and scared, but the flash of nervous shyness was clouded by a smug smirk and he turned on his heel and left. He collected his items and exited the pool area, the rest of the team watching as he went. John still wondered how someone like that was even real - so pretentious and dramatic and wordy. If he really wanted Sherlock for himself, why not just slip him a note into his satchel or flirt with him like a normal bloke? Why all the showbiz? _No, wait… I prefer showbiz. Flirting and note passing would be even worse._

"John!" Sherlock was calling. Sherlock and someone else. _Chris?_

John turned to his right, where the redhead bully from weeks previous was staring at him with a semi-amazed look. On his left was Sherlock, who, if John hadn't known any better, was completely terrified and partially aroused.

"Let me go, I'm fine." They obeyed.

"Jesus, mate, you looked like you were gonna kill him!" Chris said. John watched as he exchanged a glance with Sherlock. It seemed their teamwork in restraining him dissipated their feud. Sherlock nodded his thanks at Chris before returning his troubled eyes to John.

"I wanted to," John replied.

"He didn't insult you that bad, but you were royally pissed off no less!" Chris exclaimed. The other teammates were whispering among themselves. John could've sworn he saw a flash of popcorn or soda in their hands as if he, Sherlock, and Chris were on the big screen.

"I didn't do it for me, I did it for Sherlock. He insulted him."

Chris, although creating a homophobic joke in his mind, no doubt, seemed genuine in his response. "Did he? He just said he was the best. He is, we all know it."

Sherlock was silent throughout the encounter, but John turned his weary eyes to him and spoke. "That's not all he is. That's not all you are, Sherlock. He spoke like you were a prized cow to be won, and that's not what you are."

Now Sherlock was the one to look amazed. His scared expression fell and he looked just as relieved and loved as he did the night he told John his future dream. It took all he had not to kiss him right there, but John knew that once they wrapped up the shit here, they'd have the rest of the day to express their sentiment.

He mouthed 'thank you' to John as Chris walked away, and John decided to follow his lead. He lead Sherlock to their bags and towels as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I just couldn't - "

"Don't be sorry. It was heroic and a tiny bit sexy."

"Just a tiny bit?"

" _Fine,_ really sexy. Now take me home, I need to tell you something I've been meaning to."

"And what's that?" John pulled on a sweatshirt and situated his backpack on his shoulder as Sherlock did the same.

"I can feel myself breaking."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor coming in like "I'm-Mr.-Steal-Yo-Man."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He may not completely understand it or believe it, but God, John Watson's affection was like heroin to him.

"Your life sounds utterly thrilling," Mycroft Holmes said, his voice laden with sarcasm on the other end of the line.

Sherlock turned over in his bed and stared at the ceiling as he spoke. It was late after work the same day John nearly broke Victor's neck, and Sherlock needed brotherly advice. "I know that was sarcasm, but I'm going to ignore it because yes, my life has become rather adventurous lately."

"Do our parents know about the fight?"

"What do you think?"

"Right." Mycroft was silent for a moment.

"I know that silence, that's an 'I'm surprised at you' silence. What's so surprising? The fact that I have a boyfriend or the fact that for once in my sorry life, I might actually be happy?"

"Both. Although, I'm not one to judge you about romantic conquests."

"Oh? Have you found a goldfish?"

"Change the subject. Now."

"You're the one who brought it up!" Sherlock laughed. He enjoyed talking to his brother, as much as he acted like he didn't. "I told you about John. Come on, Myc."

"It's Mycroft, and I refuse to give you any information about him."

"Fine, but if I guess, will you tell me?"

"You're being incredibly childish about this."

"So that's a yes?"

His brother sighed. "Do your worst."

"It's Greg Lestrade, isn't it?"

"Dear God - "

"You're not as mysterious as you think, brother. He's a good guy."

"Stop talking."

"He stopped by a few times, when you were still in high school. I remember, mummy said he had fine eyes. How long have you two been together?"

"I'm not saying anything else."

"That's alright, John and I have only been together for a few weeks."

"And how's that going?" Mycroft seemed eager to direct the attention off of his love life, even at the expense of asking Sherlock about his.

"I'm still in disbelief, honestly. So many times he's told me that he cares about me, that he likes me, but I'm still worried. Even after we celebrated the near-defeat of Victor."

Mycroft was silent as he processed the information. "You aren't worried of his affections because of me, are you?"

In all truth, he was. Mycroft and his parents had always tried to convince him that relationships and overly-romantic sentiment never did a man any good, so whenever someone came into Sherlock's life, he held out for as long as he could before assuming their feelings for him. Unfortunately, that was what ruined him with his previous boyfriend. He'd never asked, and it seemed he didn't need to, since there was no sentiment there at all. "It's funny… Now we both have people to trust and love, yet for so long we've been reinforcing dad's idea of 'caring isn't an advantage.'"

"You love John?"

"Do you love Greg?"

Sherlock tapped his index finger on the back of his phone as he waited for Mycroft to respond. Finally, "Yes."

"Then you get it. I love John. I don't know how I do, but I do, and it takes all I have not to tell him every second of the day."

"You said you told him about your illness?"

"It's not an illness. I'm just… getting weaker. I hurt all the time. I told him and he wants me to rest. I ended the conversation, though. "

"Sherlock, I agree with him. You need to recover. You're going to hurt yourself seriously if you don't take a hiatus from swimming."

"I can't do that, you know I can't. Mum and dad won't let me. For God's sakes, as much as I hate it, _I_ won't let me."

"Classic Sherlock, still too stubborn to do anything for himself."

"I'm not the eight year old boy who you used to tease, Mycroft."

"Aren't you? I have to go. Government duty calls. It was nice to speak to you again, Sherlock. Don't tell them about Greg, if you can resist it."

"I don't tell them anything. Goodbye, Mycroft."

Mycroft hung up, but Sherlock held onto the phone anyway. He thought about Mycroft and Greg. It was strange, how Mycroft suddenly had his own John, but it gave him hope for himself. If Mycroft, his antisocial, too-smart-for-his-own good brother could find someone worthwhile, then John's existence must have been more than sheer luck. 

He still felt he didn't deserve him, though, and he tried not to smile too widely as the phone is his hand vibrated with John's message. He checked it, the screen of the phone cloudy from the time it'd been pressed to his cheek. 

_Done talking to your brother yet? JW_

Sherlock responded quickly. _Yes. Apparently he has a boyfriend now. SH_

_From what you've told me about him, that's sort of surprising. JW_

_It is, but I knew who it was the moment he mentioned it. Our old neighbor, Greg Lestrade. SH_

_Nice. You know, I was tempted to show up at your house uninvited, but I thought… Mmm, better not. JW_

_You should have anyway. I miss you. SH_

_:) JW_

_You're the worst. SH_

_True. Listen, tomorrow, before practice, I want to talk more about what you told me today. JW_

_Alright. And right now? What'll we talk about? SH_

_I have an idea or two. ;) JW_

Sherlock dropped his phone on his blushing face. He may not completely understand it or believe it, but God, John Watson's affection was like heroin to him.

* * *

"So, how's the boyfriend?" John's sister asked. She leaned in the doorway in an oversized night shirt, short hair messy and pink socks fuzzy against the cold wood floor.

"Jesus, can't I get any privacy?" he yelped. John sat up from the bed and laid his phone on the nightstand. Luckily, Sherlock had gone to bed, or so he said, and John was still up and… Well, doing nothing in particular, actually.

Harry sipped from the white mug in her hand and cocked a playful brow, "Were you doing something weird?"

"No!" _Yes._

"Hey man, I don't judge. I have a girlfriend of my own, y'know. I know how things work."

"Right. Now, did you need something, or…?" John moved from the bed to his desk and sat down. He began scraping some unnamed goop from it with the tip of a stray pencil idly as Harry replaced him on the bed. He felt bad that she was sitting right where'd just wanked to the sound of Sherlock fingering himself over the phone, but he held his tongue and prayed she didn't notice.

"I just want to know how it's going with Mr. Antisocial. I barely talk to you anymore. You're in and out so quick these days."

John swiveled the chair at the desk around and faced her. He set his hands on his knees and looked at her sharp smirk. "Alright, I'll bite. It's going fine. Anything else?"

"You're happy with him, aren't you?"

"'Course."

"And you like spending time with him?"

"I thought that was fairly obvious."

She crossed her thick gymnastics legs. "I'm trying to make pleasant conversation."

He was actually grateful for that. He didn't let on how much he liked Harry, of course, since her coffee always had a splash of liquor in it and she left her lipstick smeared all over the bathroom mirror, but he'd be lost without her, and he was grateful for this moment. He was happy to sit in his dim room with her and talk about Sherlock. He was happy that she was supportive this time, God only knew how jealous she'd been of his various girlfriends. She was better now that she had Clara, but he still had the right to tease her occasionally. He smiled, "I know you are."

"He seems a little weird."

"He's not, trust me."

"Granted. He just… Seems so high-strung."

"Sherlock has a lot to deal with." Harry must have heard the regret in his voice, because she immediately changed her tone and dropped the mockery.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

She twisted her back around and lay on her stomach, setting the half empty mug carefully on the floor. "Why?"

"Because he's wonderful."

"Hm. Lame. You're gonna have to work on that." 

Five seconds was a new record for Harry to remain serious. "Noted. And Clara? You love her?"

"Pffft, I'm not done with questions for you."

Sighing, he said, "Right. Shoot."

"How's the sex?"

"Harry!"

"What? I'm curious."

In all honesty, John was grateful that someone had asked him that. He bragged about it to both himself and Sherlock, but it was a relief to mention it to someone else. He ignored how uncomfortable the conversation might get for the chance to gloat about it once again. "It's… Great. It's really great."

"What's his best move?"

 _Jesus, Harry, you're the queen of subtlety, aren't you?_ "Uh… He's pretty skilled orally." John heated at the thought, resisting the urge to tighten his thighs. It was ridiculous how easily Sherlock got him flustered.

"Gross. Let's see… What else…" Harry tucked a strand of short hair behind her ear and feigned innocence by looking away before she turned back to John and crinkled her nose. "Do you let him top sometimes?"

"That's it - get out."

"I thought we were having sibling bonding time!"

John stood and lifted his sister from his bed with a forceful hand. He pushed her out as he said, "We were, but then it got weird."

"Don't be ashamed of liking it up the - " The loud slam of the door cut her off.

He sagged forward and let his forehead hit the worn wood with a soft thud. "Go to bed, Harry."

"Fine. Bye, lover boy. Tell the skeleton I say hello." And she was gone, humming to herself down the hall.

Huffing a laugh, John rolled over and slid down the door, burying his blushing face in his hands.

* * *

John had texted Sherlock to meet him at the pool early that morning so he could potentially yell at him for continuing to swim as his body weakened. As he rode his bike to meet him (he'd switched from taking the bus so he had the freedom to ride around town with Sherlock), he thought of what he could say to convince Sherlock to take it easy.

 _He's not going to listen to me if I tell him to quit the team, which is the best option for him, especially now that Victor is more of a threat. God,_ he laughed and dipped his head, a trait he picked up from Sherlock, no doubt, but a passing car brought his attention up and onto the street. _That was fucking weird. It was like he came out of nowhere and taunted us like he was a villain in a James Bond movie. Fucking prick. Fucking sodding prick._

He refocused his thoughts back to the task at hand as he rounded a corner. _Sherlock needs to take care of himself. I don't care if his parents want him to swim, or even if he wants to swim, he's going to fall apart if he doesn't take a break. I need to get him to take a break. But what can I say to convince him? He's so deeply scarred by his parents' expectations…_

Often he thought of Sherlock like this. He would lie awake at night and run the facts and memories through his mind until it felt like he'd known Sherlock for years. He speculated that all of Sherlock's insecurity and lack of self-respect came from his parents, and every day he tried to compliment him in some way to assure him of that. 

In fact, he tried desperately hard to make it so Sherlock didn't just take his compliments, but that he soon began complimenting himself. And it came out, some days, when he was bent over John's laundry hamper and peering at himself in the mirror. He'd say something like, "I have nice eyes," and John would just smile and agree with him. Or when Sherlock would plop himself down in front of his messy paper drawer and sort through John's various doodles, only to find that he could solve John's old math homework without even touching a pen to the paper. John would crawl up behind him, kiss his neck, and whisper, "My boyfriend is so smart," at which Sherlock would say, "I know he is."

John tried to show him that he was worth so much more than his freestyle, and it nearly broke his heart to have him and so many other people believe the complete opposite.

He parked his bike in the rack now, locking it and raising his eyes to the pool.

From the outside, the pool resembled a prison, with a large grey cement building and various levels of chain fence around it. As John walked towards it, he realized that for Sherlock - it was.

Pushing open the gate with one hand and adjusting his backpack with the other, John spotted Sherlock leaning against the wall in his usual way. He approached him slowly and set his pack down before winding his arms around his waist and kissing him full on the mouth.

"You're lucky Mr. Pensy's never early." Sherlock said, resting his chin on John's head.

"And you're lucky to have such a concerned boyfriend. Sit. We need to talk."

Sherlock obeyed and clasped his hands. "You're not breaking up with me, are you?" he joked.

"After last night? Hell no. I'm worried about you." John sat beside him and tucked his hand between Sherlock's thighs. 

"I'm fine, John."

"You're not. You told me so. You know what I'm going to say."

The boy with the brilliant eyes rolled them and tried to make light of the situation. It didn't work on John, and Sherlock was forced to answer seriously. "That I need to rest. I can't, John."

"Why not? Why can't you just take a few months off? You told me your skin is peeling off - shouldn't that be a sign?"

"John, if it were up to me, I'd never go swimming again. But it's not up to me. It's up to my mum, my dad, my brother, the coach, the rest of the team, this very insignificant part of me that's still attached to them, and you."

"Me? Why is it important to me?"

"Because it just is."

John slipped his hand out from between Sherlock's legs and squeezed the tight muscle of his thigh, "No. No, we're not doing this. We're not playing the 'because it just is' game."

Sherlock moved his hand to weave his fingers under John's. It was a pleasant feeling, and John wanted to have it always, but if Sherlock was more concerned about making his parents proud than his personal health, he wouldn't get to for long. "It doesn't matter."

"Christ, Sherlock! Yes, it matters! Your health is more important than anything, and if you feel yourself slowly dying every time you swim, I don't want you to swim anymore. I don't care if you dad is shitting himself in the bleachers because you're sitting out on the relay, I won't let you kill yourself because of some stupid legacy."

"Winning is the most important thing, John, and I can't win if I'm sitting out."

"Why? Why is winning so important? I mean, besides your parents and Mr. Pensy. Why is it the end of the world if you don't win?"

"Because I have to, that's all."

John was almost angry now, "Why do you have to win?"

"Winning makes me the best."

"I know, I know, you say that, we all say that, and I know it's your family - but there's something else, I know it. There's something else you're not telling me as to why it's so important that you're the best."

"You won't…"

"I won't what?" _Jesus, you're pissing me off now! I need you to be okay! I don't care what you think about it, you need to be okay!_

Sherlock looked away from John, "You won't like me if I'm not the best."

It all made sense when he'd said that. It was easy for Sherlock to go against the wishes of his parents, to ignore Victor's comments, to swim as hard as he could because everyone told him to - but when John, the one person he seemed to really be influenced by, thought he still needed to be better, Sherlock was hopeless. John then realized that his constant praise and compliments didn't make up for Sherlock's relentless questioning. Even the night John had asked him to be his boyfriend hadn't calmed his fears. He still needed the acceptance and reassurance that John would stay with him when he failed. It was nearly dangerous, Sherlock's need for John's acceptance, and John soaked in every bit of it. He wanted to be the only thing for Sherlock, the only one to teach him how to love himself. He wanted him to be attached to him forever, in every form, in every life. He wasn't going anywhere. 

 _That's_ what he needed to know. _That's_ what would convince him that his health was more important than being the best. And John knew exactly how to break it to him.

"You're right." He began, looking at Sherlock straight on. "I wouldn't like you if you weren't the best." Sherlock was defeated and completely oblivious to John's telling smile. He continued, "I'd love you. I'd love you if you were the worst, I'd love you still."

He snapped his head back to John, astonished and pink. "What?"

"I love you. I'm in love with you, Sherlock, and I would be if you decided to move to Mexico to sell tacos for a living. You don't need to be the best, or even second-best, because I'll be with you no matter what."

Sherlock's tender lips curled in a small smile, and he pushed his face in to press them to John's. He kissed John with such fever that he had to adjust his trunks once Sherlock pulled back. "And you, John. I love you, too."

"Pffft, my declaration was better." John pulled Sherlock closer to his hip by grabbing his waist. 

Giving him a bratty look, Sherlock complied. "John - master of confessions - you act like you're liked by everyone, when you're really as unsociable as me. You never comment on your appearance, although I know you care about it just as much. You're sexy as all hell and it keeps me up at night, and because of this and more, I've fallen in love with you in an absurdly short amount of time. Now, can we stop with the monologues? I feel like I'm competing for a BAFTA."

John kissed him. "Promise me you'll take it easy in the water, okay?"

"And if I don't?"

"No sex until after regionals."

"That's my main fuel, though."

"Then take it down a notch or two." 

Sherlock sighed. "Okay. Fine."

John nodded. He was content with that answer, and it seemed Sherlock was as well. They kissed, touched, and murmured their plans for the future until the undeniable sound of cars and bikes drifted through the gate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sibling interaction for both of our boys is v important.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thought about John as he pulled the water down towards his torso and kicked his legs.

As Sherlock had promised, he swam with less intensity in the last few practices they had. While he was tempted to push further each time, he dialed back to his usual speed, still keeping him ahead of the other boys.

Pensy noticed the change, but when he asked Sherlock about it, he was strangely accepting of the answer. Sherlock had told him he was reserving his energy and full potential for the competition, where he promised to be even better. Sherlock didn't actually know what would happen to him when the competition came, but with one last practice to go, he just hoped that the nonexistent rest helped a bit.

He stood in one end of the pool now, the glistening water that rose up to his collarbone now less threatening. It was almost calming as it lapped against his skin, clear and soft around him.

Glancing at John's bright grin from the pool, Sherlock smiled at him and tugged his cap down tighter.

 _It'll all be alright,_ he thought. _Everything will end up how it's supposed to._

He then dove in, gliding through the water like a spear. His shoulders ached with the first stroke, but he didn't push through it, instead, he left it to rotate at normal capacity as he swam. 

Sherlock thought about John as he pulled the water down towards his torso and kicked his legs. His mind settled comfortably into a scene that had played through about a week and a half into their relationship, when he and John had been lounging around John's room mindlessly.

Although his body was moving and twisting as he swam, his thoughts floated into his boyfriend's bedroom and a conversation they'd had about their pre-teen years. Sherlock smiled a wet grin before turning his face to breathe.

"I played some sports, yeah," John had said. He was draped over his bed, his hands in Sherlock's hair as he sat on the floor under him, cross-legged, looking through John's old photos.

"You weren't extremely athletic though, were you?"

"Are you calling me fat?" 

"No, you just have a bit of chub in this photo here." Sherlock tapped the plastic, John's pouting face topped with droopy cheeks glaring back at them.

John laughed and wove his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Yeah, I think that was after a particularly fattening Christmas. My grandma came over and was trying out all her new cookie and brownie recipes on Harry and me."

"You don't have many pictures of her. Not your grandma, Harry."

"Yes I do, you're just not looking. Here," John scooted up on the bed and reached over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock remembered feeling extremely safe with John's strong arms around him, and he nestled his face into it as John turned a few pages. "Okay, there - at the fair."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the scrapbook. "Her hair is long."

"Yeah, this was before she'd come out and really 'found her style,' as she put it. It wasn't much later than this, though. That's Clara there."

"They look like they're hiding something." Sherlock laid his hand on John's and used it to flip the page. Another picture of John appeared, where he was wearing a football jersey and sitting on a cement wall with a few thug-looking guys posed around him. "Oh my god, John."

"I know. Those guys were like my cover when I was fifteen. I was trying so hard to look straight, which was funny because I definitely had fleeting crushes on all of them."

"When did you come out to your parents, then?"

"I never really did. Harry already had, so I felt like I'd just be jumping on the queer train. I also felt like I needed to be the 'normal' kid, so I just never said anything. And it was easy not to, I brought the girlfriends home and went 'round elsewhere with guys."

"Would you tell your parents about me?" Sherlock didn't know why he'd said that, considering it was a bit presumptuous, but John had just let his arms fall further down Sherlock's chest until his head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Of course."

Sherlock remembered that he'd moved his mouth closer to John's at that, having tried to get a sweet kiss from his sweet prince, but John teased him by moving his lips away as he spoke.

"And you? Would you tell your parents about me if they weren't so… Y'know?"

"Yes, I would. I've already told Mycroft about you."

"Your brother who works in the government?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When what?"

"When did you tell him about me?"

The swimmer under John's arms felt a very faint blush creep over the bridge of his nose as he confessed, "Uh… The first day we met."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"I told Harry about you that first day, too."

Pleased at that, Sherlock replied, "Oh? And how did that go?"

"She told me to make a move sooner rather than later, and also to get you to tell your parents to fuck off."

"For God's sakes, John, how much did you tell her?"

"Everything."

Smiling so John could see how wonderful that was to hear, Sherlock tried for a kiss again, but he didn't get one; something felt wrong in his tumble turn that snapped Sherlock out of his memory. 

* * *

John was picking at his nails mindlessly when he heard the shout. It was Sherlock's name, and it was being screamed by the coach. 

Panicking, John looked towards the pool, where the other swimmers had stopped mid-lap and were looking at something. 

Sherlock's pale body was floating face-down in the pool, his arms limp and his blue capped head lolling idly in the water.

Immediately, John sprang from the bench and ran towards the pool. He dove in, mind blank, and swam towards Sherlock. When he got to him, he wrapped his arms around his slack body and pulled him along as he swam towards the edge . 

His skin was still warm on John's, and he wouldn't let this be the last time he felt it. 

Upon reaching the rim of the pool, John struggled to get Sherlock out of the water, and he felt his throat tighten as he shouted for help. Eventually, someone helped John, and he was able to lie Sherlock down on the cement.

John pulled Sherlock's goggles off him rather roughly, hoping to see those beautifully curious eyes looking up at him. Unfortunately, they were closed, and John could feel himself screaming from the inside. No sound came out but Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock!" 

The wonderful boy below him was unresponsive. 

Bodies appeared around John, one of them speaking. "He must have hit his head on the cement."

Hands furiously covering Sherlock's skin in hopes of rousing him from his state, John could feel himself breaking down. The sounds of the pool and the drips of water on the cement blended into a dull aching hum, and everything but Sherlock's still body became blurred and dark. John's throat was dry and he tried to swallow down the creeping distress, to no avail. His gut clenched and his temples pulsed. He was flustered and nervous, but he only felt ice in his veins, his fingernails scraping his knees nervously. John called to Sherlock again and again, his voice cracking the more times he repeated it. He hoped that the sarcastic, sassy person he'd come to know would spring open his eyes surprising him with a joke, but nothing of the sort happened. He remained unmoving and lifeless, both Sherlock's form and John's heart the consistency of the hot cement below them - static.

As John tried to blink the fear from the corners of his eyes and taste Sherlock in his dry mouth, he noted how the familiar grief and hopelessness already began to set in. The longer he looked at Sherlock, the deeper the anxiety hit, but he pushed through it and relied on one final shard of bravery in him to check Sherlock's pulse. Although his fingers were pressing firmly into Sherlock's veins, he felt nothing, and another wave of panic set in.

This time, he couldn't speak. He couldn't say Sherlock's name or ask for help. His insides felt red and rough and hot, and his heart was as heavy as stone, weighing silence down into him. 

 _Stay here with me,_ he thought. He brought his hands up to Sherlock's neck in hopes of finding a beat, but the string of worries in his head assured him he wouldn't find one. _God, Sherlock, please - no._

"John," someone said. He wasn't listening. Frantic, he tipped Sherlock's face up with one hand as he pressed his own down towards it. The soft, warm lips that John would never be used to kissing were now dull and lifeless as he met them, reaching for Sherlock's nose and blowing into his mouth. 

He puffed and blew like he was trained to, forcing the air back into Sherlock's lungs. He always wanted to help save a life when he was younger, and he even mimed it beside his pond. He didn't want it like this, though. Sherlock had breathed water, and everything he tried to say and do was at a loss. 

He didn't give up, though. He kneeled beside Sherlock, laid his hands on his chest, locked his elbows in and pressed firmly down. His eyes burned and his brows were furrowed in fear as he did so. He couldn't lose Sherlock, and his mind muttered silent pleas to whoever was listening.

Blood rushed into his ears and under his skin, nervous energy flowing as he continued to preform CPR. Sherlock was unresponsive under his hands, his skin still lively while his face and body remained still and unchanged. He put his lips to Sherlock's again, touching him in grief and pain rather than lust or comfort.

 _Please, wake up, Sherlock,_ he thought, sure that some of the words would slip out his mouth and into his beloved's. _Wake up. One last miracle, for me, Sherlock. Don't be dead. Not like Cal. Please._

In the few seconds that John moved back to Sherlock's chest, he thought of his life up until this moment. How, inevitably, everything he'd done would end in this. All of the "finding himself" and the "looking for a path" was for nothing. It all came down to this, just here, with Sherlock's still body resting on the sizzling stone beside a traitorous pool, cruel boys standing around ironically.

He thought about Sherlock's life, too. How much Sherlock was prepared to work to make his parents happy, how much he truly loved his brother, how his errant curls represented his wild nature. John blinked through wet eyes as he thought of the way Sherlock looked laughing in dim lights, how he could eat so much take-away and still stay so slim. 

John shook his head. No, Sherlock had to live. He was his friend. He was his confidant, his spirit, and his missing piece. It wouldn't all go to shit because of some stupid community swim team, although John figured Sherlock must have thought that's how it'd all end - in the pool.

He couldn't bear that thought, or even the one that came after it. He let it dwell in his mind it anyway. It was the fact that surely, Sherlock would somehow be able to sit with John at his own funeral, his hand clasped tight around John's for moral support.

But that couldn't happen, could it? Sherlock wouldn't be beside him, looking handsome in a suit. He'd be lying as still and pale as porcelain in a mahogany coffin.

Falling apart as he pictured it, John pressed harder into Sherlock's heart with a grunt. He wouldn't let it happen, Sherlock needed to live.  

Thinking of the average human lifespan, John's stomach churned when he remembered that Sherlock wasn't even twenty. It was as if this turn of events caused the red thread of Sherlock's story to be cut sooner than it should have been, the rest of the thread dropping pathetically to the floor, ceasing to exist. John swore he wouldn't let that string be severed. He tried again. He kept trying. He prayed to anyone who listened, even muttering something, anything, to the bystanders around him as he worked to revive Sherlock. But it was tedious, and the boys around him did nothing.

The game continued on - he pushed firmly into Sherlock's naked chest, he blew into his mouth, he pleaded, he remembered.

He didn't know how long had passed or how many times he'd said Sherlock's name, he didn't know if the swimmers around him were hopeful at John's actions or placing bets on his failure. He didn't know if he'd revealed their relationship through his watering eyes - he didn't know. He just recounted all the time he'd spent with Sherlock, even if it really only came down to less than a month. He clenched his jaw and thought of how Sherlock had wormed his way into his memories. John found him teasing Harry at the breakfast table, vacuuming his bedroom while dancing, posing for his mother's oil paintings, and finally, sitting beside him and Cal on the bank of John's pond.

He knew they would have been friends, Sherlock and Cal, but he wouldn't want them to meet this way.

John shook his head one final time, concluding that everything that had happened had been some sick trick. That the gods and fates that might have been threw John a bit of luck just when he needed it, a friend to love again, only to yank it away as they had before. 

Bracing himself for that cruel prank, John decided his final thought to Sherlock ought to be that of love, and he said the blessed confession in his head like a mantra until his arms hurt from pumping Sherlock's chest and the words seemed less like words and more like sounds.

Eventually, the chant was tiresome. Sherlock couldn't hear him. Hopeless, John closed his eyes. He cursed himself for his bad luck, not for his misfortune, but for that of Cal and Sherlock. For having two such incredible lives collapse as soon as John had interfered with them.

Cal had so much to give to the world, what with his jittery hands when he got excited, and how many stories he'd written about them on crumpled paper. Sometimes John liked to think that the stories continued, even if their adventures didn't. That the little John and Cal characters would fight dragons and play with fairies even if John was just sitting in his room, alone. It was a shame that there were no more stories to be written by those excited hands, considering they'd taken Cal's life with them. John grimaced at the thought, jumping from Cal's loss to Sherlock's, contemplating how he'd ruined _his_ chances as well.

John, although sure he'd grieve, knew that the pain and sadness were not his to own. He thought of how Mycroft would cry for the first time in his life, how Sherlock's mother would never want to look at her reflection again, how Sherlock's ex would probably use his death as an excuse to make his life interesting, and even how Sherlock's father would realize how far he'd pushed him, only to have it eventually kill him. He thought about those trophies in Sherlock's room and how they'd get dusty and fade as time passed, how all of Sherlock's potential outside of swim would never be used. No math problems would be solved, no bees would grow and flourish in Sherlock's dream hive in Sussex. None of that would happen... because Sherlock was gone.

John sagged forward towards Sherlock's unconscious body, his weak hands about to slip from Sherlock's skin. John settled into himself: someone he barely recognized as the existence of Sherlock left him. He squeezed the tears from his eyes and let them fall onto the body, his breaths painful and heavy as he struggled to respire. John's early grieving was stymied, however, when the tender, nearly broken ribs under his fingertips shuddered, and a spray ofwetness on his face surprised him.

* * *

After he'd coughed up the water in his lungs, Sherlock felt sleepy, sore, and confused. His head hurt, his ribs seemed to be broken, and as he opened his heavy lids he was momentarily blinded by the sun above him. A shadow passed it then, and blinking in the shade, Sherlock made out a face. 

John, in all his golden beauty, was leaning over him with a ridiculously sentimental smile. All of the lines and valleys in John's face were shining with adoration, and his blond hair glowed around him like a halo as he stroked Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

"You came back," John whispered.

"Where did I go?" Sherlock said. It hurt when he breathed, and his voice croaked because of it.

John let his finger slide down Sherlock's cheeks and to his lips, which felt swollen and tender. "I don't know, but it doesn't matter. You came back."

Looking around without moving his head, Sherlock noted the bare legs and matching swim trunks of his team. "What happened? Why is everyone all standing around? Why does my chest hurt?"

"You hit your head on the cement while swimming and passed out. You also… died… for a few minutes." John seemed to struggle at saying that, and Sherlock's stomach flipped. He'd always wondered how someone would react if he were to die, and seeing how melancholy John was now, he was sure it must have been hell for him.

"Am I alright, then?" _Are you alright, John?_

But a chilling voice came through their protective bubble and popped it. Mr. Pensy had stepped closer to them, "You might have a broken rib or two, if John did his job right. And a bump on the head. Other than that, you're probably fine."

Sherlock looked from Mr. Pensy to John, who seemed to be utterly disgusted with the coach's nonchalance. Sherlock then realized that John was the only one on the ground with him, meaning that his life was solely saved by his boyfriend. The others, including Mr. Pensy, all stood around and watched. He was surprised none of them had their phones out and were filming.

Something else flickered in the coach's face; it resembled fear and concern. It disappeared as he caught Sherlock noticing it, and he spoke again. "John, take him home and patch him up. I don't know if he'll be any shape to swim tomorrow, but if he is, then he will."

"You're kidding me." John said as he helped Sherlock sit up painfully. He kept his hand in John's until he saw Victor's eyes dart down at them from his position in the circle.

The coach responded, "Sorry?"

"Sherlock just died, and you want to see if he can swim tomorrow?"

"Well, obviously he didn't die, and I said if he feels like it, he can. He's the best swimmer, we need him."

"Christ," John stood up and pulled Sherlock with him. His ribs sparked with pain as he rose to his feet, but John draped his arm over him and pushed through the crowd. "You're all arseholes, you know that?" 

Either John muttered it too softly or Mr. Pensy decided to ignore it, but John's comment flew over the boys' heads and they waved Sherlock off and turned back to Mr. Pensy.

Sherlock caught the last of his speech as they moved to the benches. "That's an example of what not to do," Mr. Pensy said. "Keep your head in the game or else you'll hit it on the bottom of the pool. Hopefully Sherlock will be okay with some heavy drugs and all that, but if he isn't, you should be ready to face the Western Wolves tomorrow."

John set Sherlock down on the bench and kneeled down between his legs. He looked like he wanted to kiss him, and Sherlock wanted to kiss John, too, but he was still dizzy and confused and in pain, so all he could muster was a small, "Did I really die?"

"Yes, I think so. I couldn't find a pulse and you weren't responding to the CPR. It was so scary, Sherlock."

He nodded. He understood now. If he died, people would miss him. Not just Mycroft, in his small way, or his parents and their legacy, but John would. John would break. Somehow, that was all he needed to be okay. He was now accepting of whatever happened next. If Mr. Pensy forced him to take morphine and swim, he would only if it meant he could stay around a little longer and figure out where to go next. If he never swam again, he'd be happy too. It was a strange peace, and even the tugging realization that his parents would be disappointed in him was hidden for a moment. He had died, and it felt great. He could only think of one thing to say.

"Thank you, John."

"'Course. I wasn't going to let you slip away so soon."

"And if I had?"

"I just hope that you would've found Cal." There was a moment of sad silence between them before John asked, "What was it like? Did you see a white light or anything?"

"No, I just woke up feeling like I had a deep sleep. Now come on, I'm tired of being here and I need drugs."

"Right." John stood and reached into Sherlock's satchel for his phone. He entered Sherlock's pin and called for an ambulance, which he probably hadn't done earlier, Sherlock guessed.

When he hung up and told Sherlock they were on their way, the pained swimmer couldn't help but ask how John was doing so fine now when he said he was so scared earlier. 

"I'm just so happy you're back. You were really gone, and I'm not going to let another minute pass until you're safe again."

"That's a little smothering, don't you think?" Sherlock said, his hands reaching for his satchel as he heard the faraway sounds of an ambulance arise.

Now John really looked like he wanted to kiss him. "Death didn't change you, it seems. You're still a sarcastic arse."

"Obviously," he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Maniacal laughter*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hoped that Sherlock would still be around to kiss after today.

"You were a little stubborn," John said as he rubbed Sherlock's back. They were in a locker room, which was much cleaner and newer than their own, before the competition. Their finals would be held in the competitor's pool, and John was grateful to be somewhere other than that cursed community pool they practiced in. He ran his hands over Sherlock's shoulders now, his fingers trailing the bones and valleys. Sherlock was in pain, and John was still upset at Mr. Pensy, but neither of them knew exactly what to do about it.

John tried to smile at Sherlock's huff of indignence, but what had happened had scared him senseless, and he thought back to the night before as he continued to push the pads of his thumbs into Sherlock's muscles. At the hospital, Sherlock had gotten plenty of drugs, braces, and wraps for his sore bones. Stubborn, he insisted that the other injuries, like his shoulders, didn't need to be checked. The doctor disregarded his plea and checked anyway, telling him with a stern look that he'd definitely strained his muscles. 

She'd said that the proper treatment would be to rest for as long as a month, but Sherlock told her that that couldn't happen. She said it needed to if he didn't want to fall apart, but Sherlock complained until he finally urged a compromise out of her. She said if he competed the next day, like he wanted, then he'd need to only be in one or two races and he'd have to be extremely careful when tumble turning. She said she couldn't give him morphine while swimming, both because of the rules of the competition and the potential side effects. 

Basically, John knew Sherlock could push through and compete if he had to, but every aspect of the situation seemed to be telling them not to let him. His ribs were bruised badly, nearly broken, and his head still pounded when he looked at anything bright. He'd told John that he didn't necessarily _want_ to swim, either. At least not today, even though today was extremely important. He knew his boyfriend didn't want to be off the team, because now that he'd had showed Sherlock how to enjoy swimming without pushing himself, he had hope for the rest of the season and future years. Of course, he would be so lucky if Sherlock survived the rest of the day. Still, after all that John had taught him, the weak swimmer's parents' influence still loomed over them.

"Well, they were telling me that swimming today would be out of the question."

"Isn't it?" John asked.

"Yes… and no. I can't just give it all up because I - "

"Died."

Sherlock rolled his neck and looked back at John, his eyes clouded by worry. "Yes."

"Are you hearing what you're saying, Sherlock?"

"John, I don't know what to do. If I don't swim, it'll be like all I trained for is pointless, and if I do, I'll be in extreme amounts of pain. What else can I say?"

The breastroker sighed. If it were up to him, he'd have Sherlock rest in bed through all of this. He'd be feeding him chicken soup by the spoonful and replacing his heating pads every twenty minutes. But John knew Sherlock couldn't do that, at least not until this was all over. John wanted him to work out a way so he could swim and help the team win, if not for anything but Sherlock's own happiness. John didn't even care about the team at this point. Sure, it was fun, he'd been lucky to meet Sherlock, and the danger element of pushing his own limits was stimulating, but he didn't want it anymore if there was a chance Sherlock would be lost to him again. 

Even so, John was going to swim today. He'd swim for Sherlock, he'd swim for the team, and he'd swim for himself. He was excited to compete, to show off what he'd accomplished, to prove to Harry that all of his practices were beneficial. It was a conundrum, really, and John was as confused as his boyfriend, so he just replied with a light kiss on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I don't know," he said then, his lips trailing against Sherlock's skin. "I want you to be able to do what you want without being in pain, and I want to come out of this with good stories to tell."

"We have stories to tell, don't we?"

"Yeah, we do. So I'd be fine with walking away now. But another part…"

"Wants to finish what you started. I feel the same. We're basically stuck." Sherlock swiveled his body around on the bench and faced John. Their eyes met for a long time before John raised his thumb and traced Sherlock's cheekbone. They enjoyed the peace and silence for a moment, lost in the handsome familiarity of each other's faces. Sherlock touched John's knee and caused a warm shiver to run down John's spine. They buzzed in the electric current between them, but the comforting cocoon was broken by a body coming through the doorway.

"Coach's here," Mike said. Sherlock pulled his hand from John's leg, but it was no use. Mike was looking between them as if he knew that there was something going on. His knowing look was mixed with confusion after the events of the day previous. Nobody on the team knew if Sherlock would swim or not. In fact, there was almost a ripple of realization that coursed through the boys which told them all that Sherlock was never the cocky prick he seemed, that he was insecure and just a bit broken like the rest of them. 

"Thanks," John replied, his own fingers resuming emptiness in his lap, "and good luck today. Watch the lane lines."

"Right. The first relay starts in seven minutes… Sherlock," he lowered his voice, "are you going to swim?"

John glanced at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes. Something faltered in his face, and John's heart went out to him.

"I don't know. At this point, I think it's what the coach wants. I'm too confused."

Mike nodded and disappeared again. John and Sherlock resumed romantic contact, John stroking soft circles on Sherlock's bruised chest. 

"Sorry about these. There's really no way not to fuck a person up when giving CPR." 

Sherlock smiled and pressed his face in for a kiss. John looked at his tender lips and creamy skin before meeting his mouth with soft compression. He hoped that Sherlock would still be around to kiss after today. There was really nothing else he needed, other than that. 

John kissed him passionately, his hands finding their way around the back of Sherlock's neck, his tongue playfully darting across Sherlock's bottom lip. He deepened it after a moment, sure that the feverous snog would give them some luck. He closed his eyes and let the world blur around him. _This is my everything,_ he thought.

A voice cut through them suddenly, sharp and terrible, "Oh, Goddamnit."

* * *

Sherlock mentally swore as he jerked away from John's sweet lips. His stomach dropped as he turned toward the voice, whose owner was none other than their infamously homophobic coach.

John shifted coldly beside Sherlock and pushed himself further downy the bench in the moment it took for Mr. Pensy to speak. "I always figured… I figured it was you two."

"Mr. Pensy, I know - " John started. Sherlock called to John silently, hoping he'd remain calm, even if the situation worsened. The swimmer's tender stomach, which had been fluttering with nervous energy moments before, was now sunken deep into itself.

The coach held up his hands and glared them down, "No. No excuses. You know my rule. You deliberately disobeyed me." He moved sideways, as if coming closer to them would make him sick. "I just don't know why you had to get caught now…" He muttered the last bit, but it was threatening just as well.

The boys were paralyzed. Sherlock knew the consequences as well as John did, but he'd hoped that the day before would cut them some slack. By the icy quirk in the coach's eyes, he didn't think that would be the case.

"I don't know what else to say. I won't allow this kind of faggotry on the team, no matter who you are. You need to get out." He crossed his arms like a cliched cartoon character. The whole room felt cliched and unreal, actually, and Sherlock momentarily forgot that this was his life, and that John's happiness was also in the hands of the prick before them.

"No, wait, don't kick John off the team, he's come too far!" Sherlock pleaded.

"I don't care. He goes, you go. It was weird enough that you two were always together, but…" His words trailed off and were stopped by a tight frown. Mr. Pensy was strangely calm, and it freaked Sherlock out more than potential rage. It was uncomfortably silent as Sherlock's mind reeled in what to say next. He wanted to tell Mr. Pensy that he couldn't do this, claw at his chest, cry and scream at him, plead that it was unfair, but their coach was right. He'd told them not to date, and they had anyway. Not that his reasons were particularly moral, or anything.

Nobody spoke after that. Mr. Pensy didn't tell them to get out again, he seemed to be waiting for them to leave on their own. However, John seemed just as stuck to the bench as Sherlock was, and the looming silence crept on. Sherlock felt that every move he made, every twitch in his skin, was speculated and judged by Mr. Pensy's cold eyes. He wasn't sure how long the glare would continue, but he didn't have to wonder, because Mike and his friends reappeared in the doorway, mid-chat.

"And I told her I didn't want the bloody socks! Woah, what's going on here?" 

"We've a faggot infestation." Mr. Pensy replied. More boys followed in after Mike Stamford, pausing their pre-competition jitters as the sharp tension reverberated off the metal lockers and hit them with full force.

"Excuse me?" another teammate said, his head popping through his sweatshirt as he pulled it on.

The coach turned towards the other boys. "These two are dating." He gestured to John and Sherlock with a disgusted hand, but he somehow looked smaller now that there were a dozen or so fit, tall, young men standing around him. In all their various forms and expressions, the collection of boys filled the room and seemed to change the lonely locker room from a cold, tense atmosphere to one of a warm crowd.

Sherlock would have never thought he'd see what he saw then. There was an unspoken current that traveled between all of his teammates' glances. It was defensive and assertive, and Sherlock's breath hitched when one of them smiled menacingly from the back and inched a bit closer. Although they were mostly rude to him, something about the coach's jaundice tone caused their overwhelming number to come in handy and they all stood up a little straighter, a little stronger. 

Chris was the first to respond, "So they broke your bullshit rule?"

"Yes." Mr. Pensy was backed up against a locker now, and while he remained tall, something flickered in his eyes as Chris crossed his arms. Sherlock looked from John to the group, where he met Victor's gaze. Victor then glanced between the coach and Sherlock's boyfriend, who had resumed holding his hand as soon as Mr. Pensy had turned his back on them. Victor seemed completely different than he had been the day he confronted Sherlock; he was a face in the crowd once more, his air just as protective as the other boys around him. It was new and comforting to Sherlock, and he remained silent as he watched the events unfold before him.

"That rule is rubbish," Arthur said.

"All of us think so," Mike added, looking to his friends and teammates for murmurs of agreement.

The coach grumbled in response, "Oh? And you're just telling me this now? It's because you've all been having orgies after practice isn't it?" 

One of the young men laughed. The wonderful noise came from the left of the coach and was attached to a smiling face which said, "Do you know how ridiculous you sound?"

The team muttered together until Robert spoke above the hum, "And what if we were? How would that affect our swimming whatsoever?"

"Yeah, would we _contaminate_ the pool?" A dark haired boy shoved his neighbor and chuckled.

Mr. Pensy was right scared now, faltering in surprise. It was such a drastic change, Sherlock was sure he was watching something equal to an intervention. The boys were relentless, though, and they spoke over Mr. Pensy as he mumbled something crude and tucked his arms tighter.

"Your homophobia was nearly unbearable before, but now you're threatening to punish a boy who _died_ yesterday. Your best swimmer, no less." 

"And John Watson, too. He came out of nowhere and fixed everything." Sherlock watched as the boy who'd spoken nodded and John, who shifted and nodded back, surprised yet grateful for the recognition.

Another teammate spoke, even though it seemed Mr. Pensy had nothing else to say on the matter. "And what's it to you if they're dating? Boyfriends or not, I've never seen anyone care about someone else as much as these two. Even if Sherlock's in no shape to compete, don't kick them off the team for that. Let John swim and have Sherlock sit out. He'll heal up by next season, surely."

The boy who'd spoken wasn't close to Sherlock, he was sure they'd never even glanced at each other, but his words washed over Sherlock warmly and caused him to take a shuddering breath. 

Mr. Pensy, while still angry, had been forced to accept that which disturbed him with the threat of mutiny, and he finally threw up his hands and shook his head. "We can't afford to be disqualified with too little players anyway, and the match is about to start. John - you'll swim today, Sherlock, you won't. The team will have to pick up the slack for you, though."

The swimmer with the sore bones nodded seriously and felt a small smile cross his lips as soon as the coach turned his back and swept out of the room, resentful. The other boys took a moment to check that he was truly out of the locker room before approaching John and Sherlock and asking about whatever there was to ask that never had been in the months they worked together. After answering a few questions about his health and giving out a bit of advice on style, Sherlock pursed his lips. He was overwhelmed and didn't know what else to say. He was unable to find the proper way to express his thanks, so Sherlock just kissed John and melted at the sounds of whoops directed at them.

* * *

The cement was rough and cold under Sherlock's curling toes. He sat on the bench, away from the pool, as his team competed without him. He looked around the unfamiliar pool area as he waited for the next relay to start. There were multicolored flags stretching in lines above the water, plastic triangles fluttering in the faint breeze. There was a low rumble from the audience as they discussed the previous competition, how well their sons had done in his leg, which tumble turns were invalid, who on the team wasn't accused of false starting when they should've been - mindless judgements of the sort. Sherlock didn't check to see if his parents were in the audience, because he knew they were. Sitting there, stiff, like hawks with a team full of mice as prey. The mice splashed gathered around the edge of the pool, oblivious of the weight and sacrifice that Sherlock had dropped as he'd sat alone and replaced it with a blanket over his tender shoulders. 

He wasn't jealous, necessarily, the turn of events that had lead him here were just different than what he'd hoped. Sherlock had worn himself out faster than he'd anticipated, his parents were strangely invisible, Mr. Pensy was relatively silent from the sidelines, and he wasn't swimming. He wasn't kicking off from the cement with numb feet and straining to breathe as he pushed himself a little harder, swam a little faster. He was just sitting, calm and dry. 

But his absence in the pool wasn't the change he'd placed at the top of his mental list; it was John. John had come completely out of a separate lane and blew everything Sherlock had known from the water. He'd spoken to him and taught him that legacies and vicarious parents weren't all that important. John kissed Sherlock and proved to him that he can be loved, and more importantly, love himself. John touched Sherlock and sparked a realization that sex doesn't have to be a competition, a battle of give and take, something to pass the silences. Although, Sherlock knew at times, silence was better.

Clasping his hands, Sherlock considered that as loud and churning as his mind usually was, having John's fingers ghost over his bare chest and lie beside him with those devilishly handsome eyes seemed to cease his worries. He could pass hours or days like that, just relaxing, because John was like a sedative, and God only knew he'd needed a bit of that lately.

Sherlock scraped his toenails against the ground as he heard the starting sound and its accompanying splashes of fit bodies. He smiled sadly, a bit of regret passing through him. He was so prepared to let this one event rule him, and as he watched now, its ridiculously built-up culture was revealed to him. The mothers in the stands were standing up so abruptly that their many chins jiggled and the little brothers in front of them rolled their eyes. The thrashing in the pool just looked silly when the boys tried so hard, and Mr. Pensy's scowling face wasn't frightening when noting that his entire life was molded around young adult men and personally attacking them with homophobic slurs.

It was a bit sickening, really, to watch it all from afar and lose the desire for it. The loss wasn't sad, however, because Sherlock had decided, in that moment, with the overly-enthusiastic dads' bellows as his soundtrack, that he and John Watson would be his new hobby.

Wherever John wanted to go, he'd follow. When the tables turned and Sherlock wanted to lead, he knew John would accompany him. If he needed a day to fawn over John's beauty, it wouldn't be met with irritation. The next time John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's leftover insecurity, he'd take it as a sign that John assuredly loved him. Whenever Sherlock felt the need to speak up, he would. If he wanted to stay silent, he could. If ever John wanted more kisses, Sherlock would not hesitate to give them. If John went a solid three weeks without wanting to bottom, Sherlock wouldn't mind. If he pleaded that Sherlock just bend him over the kitchen table and fuck him, he'd enthusiastically oblige. If John ever wanted to talk about his old friend Cal, Sherlock would listen. If he never wanted to mention it again, Sherlock wouldn't pry. He'd be all that John needed and all he could want, because John had saved him so many times and in so many ways, and he wanted nothing more than to return the favor.

Sherlock wasn't even paying attention to the relays anymore, the announcer, or even the cheering crowd. He was lost in thought at the fact that John loved him, and that meant that they're first month together wouldn't be their last, that they'd be together no matter what happened after today. Say John wanted to move to Paris, Sherlock would pack his bags and leave without bidding his father goodbye. At this point, there was nothing keeping him here. He'd died, he really had, in this life, and he was ready to find another one. He was ready to start anew with John, in whatever way he could, because he needed to get out of this town and follow the things that made him happy.

John really did make him so happy. It was unbelievable that they could just lounge around, look at old photos of themselves and their siblings, and eat somewhat-stale snacks 'til sleepy yawns replaced laughter. That they would exchange a glance and know exactly who of the strangers at Sherlock's work looked the most embarrassing as they perused the aisles. That the smell of lilac blossoms and pond water was now permanently attached to John. That John's kisses were still just as mind-blowing as they were that first day in the old locker rooms. But even with all of this backing him up, curling like shimmering ribbon through his memory, Sherlock sometimes still wondered how it even came to be that John loved him. He loved him when he won, and he loved him when he lost. He loved him in the morning, and he loved him when the streets went dark. He loved him when he lived, and loved him still when he died. How John could look at him and see the moon, when at times, all Sherlock saw in himself was a wet sock.

It didn't matter that he faltered in perceiving himself, though, because John was showing him how to be okay. He'd stand with him as he healed, both physically and mentally, knowing Sherlock would do the same. While John showered Sherlock with honest and helpful compliments, Sherlock could barely find the right string of words to capture his beloved's near-otherworldly existence. John's wisdom, bravery, and loyalty shone through his smile, and Sherlock would tell him as well as he could that he deserved so much more than he was dealt. That the highest form of compliment he could give himself was that John loved him. He loved him, and Sherlock knew that in any form, any time, he and John would find a way to be together. Even if the death-defying, legacy-breaking relationship that they had now was melodramatic, and the universe had meant for them to never date but flirtatiously sass each other into oblivion, it wouldn't matter in the slightest because he had John _now,_ and _now_ was the time to appreciate that.

A loud wave of the crowd's roaring then snapped him out of his reflection, and he brought his hopeful eyes to the water. His teammates were clambering out and smiling, and by doing the quick math and deducing the scores due to the various expressions and snippets of conversation around the pool, it seemed that they must have come in second place. That meant that all they'd worked for, what Sherlock had died for, was really fantastic all along. Second place wasn't winning, but it wasn't losing, and Sherlock propped his sore spine a little straighter as his friends and teammates hugged their family. Their ranking also meant that they'd be able to travel to other cities, even other countries if they were good enough. It meant that Sherlock might have enough courage to tell his parents off in the midst of their disappointment. It meant that he and John could move on now, take their ghosts and their memories elsewhere.

Darting his eyes around the goggle-clad faces and tan bodies, Sherlock searched for him. Finding his shape and sparking with excitement as he often did, Sherlock crossed his ankles and waited for John to come to him. 

Seeing as he was the last one out of the pool, Sherlock exchanged a few pleasantries and congratulations to those around him, but as he tugged the blanket tighter around his sore shoulders, he watched John and only John.

The boy with the confidant air snapped the cap from his head and the goggles from his eyes, balling them in his fist. Droplets of water slipped down his naked chest and fell softly to the cement below his padded feet as he approached Sherlock, closer and closer still, the celebrations and movement beside him slowing and parting for him as if he were an angel descending from the clouds. The grey sky behind him, appropriately silver for their second place medal, opened up and bathed John in golden light. His skin and hair, both similar in color, were outlined by a faint metallic glow, and his round face beamed like the sun at Sherlock.

John's slight shrug as he came closer revealed that the happenstance of events that had transpired in the last month were as unexpected as they were wonderful, but his curious eyes and bright smile undoubtedly read something along the lines of, _Sherlock, I am ready to face whatever uncharted waters we discover next._

To which Sherlock could only cock his head and think, _And when they come, I will swim beside you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit anticlimactic, isn't it, second place? Or is it more real?  
> And yes, I considered not ending it in a swimming pun (briefly).

**Author's Note:**

> Xx THE END xX
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies! Hopefully my gals Mara, Désirée, and Cassie thought it was worth the wait!  
> Feel free to peruse my other johnlock fics, God knows there's too fucking many.  
> Also, follow for more johnlock: crimson-winter.tumblr.com :)
> 
> Xx crimsonwinter xX


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